


In Good Faith

by ShevatheGun



Series: The Mistress: The Rise and Regrets of Tora Naprem [7]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Arguing, Bajoran Culture, Demisexual Character, Dissociation, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Occupation of Bajor, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Religion, Skrain "patent overreaction" Dukat making stupid ass choices and then regretting them. a lot, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, no death this time, wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-03-25 12:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 45,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13834200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShevatheGun/pseuds/ShevatheGun
Summary: Just when it seems Naprem and Dukat have reached their breaking point, the Kai arrives to weigh in.





	1. A Simple Misunderstanding

**Author's Note:**

> I intended this to be a one-shot, but at a certain point - 42 pages, in my case - you have to look yourself in the eye and say, "...man, this should really be two parts instead of one." So much love to my DS9 chat buddies, my dearest Lena, and wonderful Alaster, among many others. I promise Part 2 in short order. ;) LLAP

**Terok Nor - First Summer, 2352 - 33rd Year of the Occupation**

* * *

It all comes down to a ruined conduit. All that pain and strife, and Chief Engineer Marel fixes it all with a few hours spent in the engineering corridor between Ops and the lift. Or, at least, that's what Naprem hears through the grapevine - what she pieces together from the whispers of the old bitties, from the boring pillowtalk of B’hava’el’s regulars, and from the murmurings of her neighbors in Records. Marel spends the better part of a week rerouting the electrical conduits to compensate for the extra output of Quark’s new holosuites, but the problem is fixed the first day. The heat dissipates and falls to manageable levels; ever present, but not nearly so miserable. Sixty-three people dead, and all it took was twenty minutes and a conduit to fix.

The day after her dismissal, Naprem wakes up cool-headed and lead-limbed. She finds herself in the lift to Operations almost by accident, walks to Dukat's office in a daze. She'll apologize, she thinks - however painful it may be, she'll make peace.

But without so much as looking up, Dukat waves her away again.

“I apologize if I was unclear,” he says, without a hint of apology to his tone. “But I don't currently have any need of your services - you're relieved. When I need you again, I'll send for you.”

She walks back to Records with her hands balled up into fists, her temper blackened with embarrassment.

But the days stretch into a week, and then into two. Marel fixes the conduit, and the stifling heat that's stalked her dissolves overnight. As hour after hour ticks by, her anger, too, surrenders to her better judgement. Her coworkers in Records gossip and stare. Bajorans on the promenade give her strange looks. People still bring her questions, and rarely if ever does she summon the strength to tell them the truth. She sits in silence with her guilt and her cowardice.

It’s been three weeks, and Naprem is starting to think Dukat may never send for her ever again.

* * *

Skrain Dukat, meanwhile, is becoming increasingly annoyed. It’s been three weeks, and he still can’t figure out who Tora’s husband is.

Oh, surely she has one. A woman with Tora Naprem’s charm and beauty doesn’t evade marriage without some sort of irreconcilable personal deformity, and sometimes even then. He’s given to believe - both from anecdotal evidence, and from what scant research he’s done - that even her hyperbolic temper would be considered quite attractive to Bajoran men, and she’s had thirty years in captivity to choose one. She hadn’t even bothered to deny it when he’d brought it up. She hadn’t confirmed it either but then of course she wouldn’t; Tora is a woman of pride and dignity. It wouldn’t do to admit she’s married when she’s been flirting with him so outrageously from the very beginning - it would be unsightly for them both. Even thinking about it is enough to make him sigh with disappointment over the path not taken. It’s too bad, really.

The problem, of course, is that he has no idea who her husband is. A mine worker, obviously - why else would she have gotten so upset about the climate controls? But Terok Nor is home to just over six thousand Bajorans, over eighty-five percent of which work the mines. Of those, a good seventy-eight percent are men; half of those of marriageable age. His Prefecture for decent recordkeeping - if he could eliminate them just one level further, he’d have a good selection to intuit from. But what with most Bajoran marriages going unrecorded, he can’t even reliably differentiate the married men from the single. 

Still, he’s given it a good try in his own opinion. He’s drug a few likely candidates in for interviews - single men close to Tora’s age (scant as they are it hadn’t been hard), with either a similar background in academics, a similar history of rebelliousness, or both. Of those, he’d had a few transferred off-station, just to test the waters. 

But there’d been nothing. No reaction, no evidence that she’d even noticed. She’d been the Records officer to prepare their paperwork, he’d made sure of it - and still, nothing. Tora is either the most disloyal wife he’s ever met - not entirely unlikely, given her flirtatiousness, but a bit out-of-character - or he hasn’t even come close with his guesses. The likelihood that he’s completely wrong is somehow more irritating than anything else about the entire situation. He knows she’s married, but he hasn’t the slightest idea to whom, and he doesn’t appear to even be in the right general vicinity, because if he were, she’d have stormed in here already to tell him a thing or two--

“Gul Dukat,” Damar says, interrupting him. “Have you heard  _ anything _ I’ve just said?”

Skrain sighs, resting his forehead against his fingertips. “I apologize, Damar. I was lost in thought.”

Damar sighs back, but if he’s truly upset with him he doesn’t show it. If anything, he looks almost sympathetic, as though he’s already conjured an excuse for Skrain’s daydreaming without it ever being offered. Despite Skrain’s effervescing annoyance, a warm affection for Damar hums in his chest. Ah, Damar - ever reliable, ever true. 

“I’ve received confirmation from Gul Lumer that Kai Opaka will be cleared for transport within the day. We should expect her sometime within the next fourteen hours.”

“Good,” Skrain says with a nod. He sits up, bridging his hands, surveying the itinerary Lumer’s second sent after his last transmission. “Her room is secured?”

“Yes, sir. Lukin and I checked it this morning.”

Skrain hums, but his mind is wandering already. He doesn’t have nearly enough mental energy allocated to this ‘Kai’ business. They’ve been putting it off for months, as it is. He’d like to postpone it a few more weeks if he could, but this is procedure, and if they put it off much longer, it’s likely to destabilize their entire operation.

“We can’t afford any incidents,” he reminds Damar.

“I know, sir.”

Skrain nods, pursing his lips. He pushes back in his chair just so, crossing one ankle over his knee.

“After we conclude our business with the Kai,” he says, meditatively, “we ought to start interviews again.”

“Interviews, sir?”

“I know you don’t like it, Damar, but I  _ do _ need a Bajoran aide.”

Damar sighs, more deeply this time. “Permission to speak candidly, sir?”

Skrain raises his brow ridges but offers his hands, palm up. “As you wish.”

“I don’t understand the necessity.”

Skrain sighs back at him at last and smiles, amused. “Damar…”

“Tora was incredibly disruptive while she was here, and I personally feel we gained very little by including her.”

Skrain tries not to let the amusement on his face vanish too abruptly. It’s by design that Damar was never made aware of the details of the negotiation with Darhe’el, but for a moment he’s almost tempted to disclose it, if only to defend his choice to keep Tora as a member of his staff even after her personal frailties had begun to affect her performance. Instead, he puts on a patient air.

“You’ve served as my second through two other transitions,” he says.

“I have,” Damar says.

“And in both of those transitions, I made it a point to reach out to the community I was there to serve and to reorganize. Do you remember?”

“Yes, sir,” Damar says.

“At the Kora II mining facility, it was Bolum Takir. And at Letau, it was…?”

“Lukin.”

“Lukin,” Skrain agrees. “Who now serves as my security chief.”

“I’ve never understood why, sir.”

Skrain smiles again - chuckles, shakes his head. He can’t help it. Damar is so proper, so controlled - a man who lives by the rules, that’s why Skrain likes him. It makes him quick to cultivate an appreciation for the strategic, the authentic, the original, but slow to invent it himself.

“It’s very simple,” Skrain says. “When one wishes to transform a population, one needs a proper vessel to act upon, and to observe. You need a representative - someone who can speak knowledgeably about the environment and lend legitimacy to your cause, but who also represents its present shortcomings. When engineering transformative action, it must be informed, and observable. So, you keep your representative close at hand. When something works, you’ll see it working on them. I don’t simply change  _ structures _ , Damar - I fix communities.”

“All of your ‘representatives’ before were Cardassian,” Damar points out.

“I suppose,” Skrain says. “Bajorans do lack any underlying sense of duty. But they’re excruciatingly honest about their own needs - selfish, yes, and hedonistic. But truthful.” 

He pulls his hands back into his lap, drumming his fingers together. “I’ll have to find another who isn’t afraid of me - someone articulate. Educated. Personable. But rebellious. Not dangerous, mind you, but - bold. Outspoken. Knowledgeable about the people’s needs. We’ve gotten new transfers since the last round of interviews. Surely we can find someone who matches that description.”

Damar frowns, but nods. Skrain can tell what he’s thinking; it’s what they’re both thinking: that someone matching that description is sitting in Records at this very moment, and Skrain can’t figure out who her husband is.

* * *

 

Naprem somehow forgot how enormously tedious Records work is. The past few months, she’s had other things to think about - vendors to appease, production numbers to review, morning meetings to strategize about. Serving Dukat had cut her hours in the Records office in half, and she’d gotten used to only spending a few hours a day here, and to having the freedom to conduct herself as she liked. That was a mistake - she realizes that now - but she can’t unmake it, and in the aftermath, the tedium is profound.

She sighs, combing through the details of yet another transfer. It seems like there’s been an unprecedented number of them lately - all men about her age, of various backgrounds. She hasn’t the slightest idea why. Dukat’s clearly up to something, but whatever it is, she can’t do anything to stop it. There are no serious flags on any of their paperwork, and they’re all assigned to work camps that will be happy to have them. She prepares their documents and approves them with guilt like a stone in her gut. She should  _ do _ something, she knows that, but one work camp isn’t so different from another. At least on-world, they won’t have to endure heat like they will in Terok Nor’s ore processing units.

She grinds her teeth, muscling back her anger with herself. She sits back from her desk, taking a deep breath, and her ears catch on the unpleasant sound of gossip a few desks over.

It’s never particularly difficult to make out what can charitably be described Cardassian “whispering”; they’re all so hard of hearing that they have to stand within half an inch of each other to speak any lower than normal, and even then, they don’t speak quietly enough to avoid being overheard by ears keener than theirs. Tosia is perched on Pomam’s desk, leaning obnoxiously close to her, PADD held to her hip as she goes about being as discreet as Cardassian biology allows.

“...heard she’s been dismissed,” Naprem overhears Tosia say. “I’m sure he’s in the process of making it official.”

Pomam’s dour face never changes. She doesn’t even looks up from her work. “Until he does, it’s none of my concern.”

“Well, he appointed her, didn’t he? Surely he’ll transfer her out, now.”

“It’s none of my concern,” Pomam says, pointedly. But she looks up from her work, which is clearly what Tosia wanted.

“She makes a mockery of this whole department. You know it as well as I do. Bajorans don’t belong here.”

“I don’t set policy in this department, Madam Tosia.”

“But surely you have an opinion.”

“I don’t come here to form opinions,” Pomam snaps. “Nor do I come here to gossip. I find neither conducive to expedient workflow. It is my position that anyone in this department who efficiently delivers should be allowed to stay, and that anyone who fails to do so--” And at this, she turns to stare at Naprem. “--should be done away with. Immediately.”

Naprem’s ears burn, and she whips her head back to work, her whole face pink. Tosia snickers, clearly not realizing that the insult is meant for her, as well, and takes her leave with a smug grin. 

Naprem continues working, fingers tripping over the keys of her terminal, but her heart boils with embarrassment. Her thoughts are cloudy with resentment and dark with the stubborn bruise of shame. She keeps mistyping, stumbling through the digital protocols. She bites her lower lip and tries to focus. She wants to disappear. She wants so badly to sink through the floor, for the station to simply swallow her up - she wants to be marooned on an ice flow on the Bozn sea. Anything to not be  _ right here _ ,  _ right now _ .

Her terminal chimes as the shift siren sounds through the halls of the station. She forces her way through the rest of the document she’s preparing and retrieves her time card a bit after everyone else, deliberately refusing to make eye contact with any of her coworkers. She keeps her eyes trained dutifully downward and tries to lash the red from her cheeks. 

She’s so busy looking down that she nearly jumps out of her skin when someone catches her by the arm just as she walks out the door. It takes her a full second to register B’hava’el’s face, familiar and sardonic.

“ _ Prophets _ ,” Naprem gasps. “Don’t do that!”

“Look up when you’re walking somewhere,” B’hava’el says. 

“Don’t you have work?” Naprem asks.

B’hava’el nods. “Yeah, listen, I’m in a hurry, alright? I just needed to talk to you.”

“Why?” Naprem’s stomach braces itself for more bad news. “Are you alright? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” B’hava’el says, waving her off. “You heard from Dukat today?”

“No,” Naprem says, suspiciously. “Why? Have you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” B’hava’el says. 

Naprem gasps, a violated look crossing her face before she can stop it. She raises a hand to cover her mouth and B’hava’el slaps it down, looking annoyed. “Not like that!” she snaps. “One of my regulars told me something he shouldn’t have, and now I’m telling you: the Kai’s coming.”

Naprem feels all the breath go out of her at once.

“The Kai?” she repeats. “ _ The Kai _ ,” she whispers, awe and dismay tumbling together in her mouth. 

“You have to go see him,” B’hava’el says.

“I can’t.”

“You have to,” B’hava’el says, putting her hands on her hips. “She’s coming, she’s gonna be here for a few days, and one of the guys on her security detail  _ told me about it. _ You realize what that means, right?”

“He has no idea what he’s doing,” Naprem says.

“He has no  _ clue _ what he’s doing,” B’hava’el agrees. “ _ Cheli _ , you’ve gotta fix this. You need to get in there and  _ fix him. _ ”

“B’hava, I  _ can’t _ ,” Naprem says, and she can’t believe B’hava’el’s reduced her to pleading already. She takes her soft, small hands and squeezes, begging her to understand. “He dismissed me, I can’t go back until he asks me to.”

“He revoke your codes?”

“What?”

B’hava’el leans in and speaks very slowly, as if to a small child: “Did he. Revoke. Your codes?”

Naprem’s brow creases and she looks down at the floor, confused. “I… no.”

“Your codes to the lift still work?”

“Yes--”

“You still have your PADD?”

“Yes, but--”

“Is there anything you got from him that he’s asked you to give back?”

“No, but I--”

“That’s Cardassian for ‘come back to me,’” B’hava’el says. “He may as well have it painted on his forehead.  _ Cheli _ , you get back in there, right now, and you tell him what’s what. Or he’s gonna blow this whole thing, and you know it.”

Naprem opens her mouth to reply, but can’t find the words. B’hava’el shakes her head a little and takes back her hands. Then, in one smooth motion, she spins Naprem around and gives her a little push towards to promenade, and a slap on the ass.

“Go. I have to work.” 

Naprem turns around to challenge her, but she’s already half-gone in the other direction, trotting a ways down the corridor before adjusting herself to a sultry swagger. Naprem bites her lip, exhales slow through her nose, and heads towards the promenade, trying very hard to be brave.

* * *

 

She tries to rehearse what she’s going to say. She tries it as she’s moving through the crowd on the promenade. 

_ Do you realize-- _ No, no, that’s much too harsh. She should apologize first.  _ I realize that my behavior-- _ Ugh, no, she doesn’t want to apologize, what does she have to apologize for? Maybe her outburst was a bit unprofessional, but she didn’t say anything to him that she doesn’t believe. (But that isn’t how it works - it may have been true, but it wasn’t appropriate.)  _ Let me first apologize for-- _ No. No, just… 

She can’t make herself apologize, she realizes - that’s right out. That’s the only reason she hasn’t gone back before now; she thought that maybe, if she simply waited for him to call her in, the right words would come to her. But they haven’t, and they don’t. She makes her way through the crowd, past Quark’s, past the guards standing outside the lift, who give her a quizzical look. She puts her codes in and the lift doors close, and her mind is still blank. She hasn’t the slightest idea what she’s going to say to him.

Surely, she thinks, with a rising panic, B’hava’el can’t be right. He can’t want her to come back. He explicitly told her  _ not _ to come back. Oh, Prophets, what is she thinking? This is crazy. He’s going to turn her out again, and this time he  _ will _ remember to revoke her codes.

_ Focus _ , she tells herself,  _ focus. _ If what B’hava’el said was true, he will need her - that much, Naprem can come to terms with. (After all, she was never under the impression that he didn’t  _ need _ her advice. Just that he didn’t use it properly.) 

She’s bitten her lip numb by the time the lift arrives in Operations. She still doesn’t have anything prepared, and it makes the whine of panic in her brain rise to a low moan as she looks out across the floor. Several soldiers look up from their terminals and stare at her wearing various shades of surprise and disbelief. 

Naprem takes a deep breath, tucks her chin, and crosses the floor to Dukat’s office as quickly as she can without running, so her legs won’t have time to go weak from the nerves.

The doors slide open - he’s alone, chair slightly turned, nose in a PADD. “Come in,” he says, not looking up, and she thanks the Prophets for his distraction, for the few seconds she has when his eyes aren’t on her and the doors are still open, waiting to see if she’ll turn tail and run. She thanks the Prophets for allowing her the liberty of commanding his attention.

“Gul Dukat,” she says, and she sees him sit bolt upright in his chair.

Dukat turns, very slowly, and stares at her as a man stares at a ghost. Utter disbelief is etched on his face.

“Professor,” he says. He narrows his eyes just so, and gives a quizzical tilt of his head. “I believe the last time we spoke, I said I would send for you the next time your services were required.”

“I remember what you said.”

“Clearly--”

Naprem interrupts him. “When does the Kai arrive?”

Again, Dukat looks flummoxed, as though she’s just shoved him into his seat. This time, though, surprise quickly reshapes itself into suspicion, discontent - and then, just as quickly, innocence. 

“The Kai?” he repeats, slowly. “I’m afraid I don’t know to what you’re referring.”

“You’re a very bad liar,” Naprem observes, and it’s a pleasant revelation. 

Dukat smiles, but he only does it halfway - there’s no warmth or sincerity to it. “Professor,” he says. “I assure you, you’re mistaken. What reason would I have to bring the Kai here?”

“Precedent,” Naprem says, plainly. “Every Prefect before you has sought the Kai’s public approval within a few months of their appointment - it provides you legitimacy.”

“Not all of them have been successful,” Dukat says.

“Not all of them have received her enthusiastic approval,” Naprem amends. “But all of them have received it. One of Gul Tirek’s greatest blunders is theorized to have been postponing the Kai’s visit to Terok Nor after his appointment.”

Dukat surveys her, drumming his long fingers slowly against his leg. Finally, he sighs.

“Suppose you’re right,” he says, as if they don’t both know that she is. “I  _ have _ dismissed you from this post, Professor, and your first-hand cultural knowledge notwithstanding, I fail to see how you’re specially qualified to advise such a meeting.”

“I was a professor of historical anthropology with a focus in religious studies,” Naprem says, not hiding her irritation. “I’m surprised that wasn’t in my file.”

Dukat stares at her a second longer, and then shakes his head and hisses something between his teeth that sounds suspiciously like the words, “My Prefecture for decent recordkeeping.”

“Sir?”

“Tora,” he answers, with mirroring her annoyance. “Even if I do accept you as an expert in this field, the fact remains that your most recent performance left much to be desired. If you’re not even going to apologize--”

“You hired me as your advisor,” Naprem snaps, and her fury keeps her standing. This confrontation has been center stage in her dreams for going on three weeks, and now, in spite of the cold lead in her stomach, her teeth are chattering against the bit of everything she’d like to say to him. “Have I advised you poorly?”

Dukat raises a brow ridge. “One could say your behavior--”

“But have I advised you poorly?” Naprem interrupts. “Have I guided you ill?”

Dukat pushes his lips together, drumming his fingers. “I suppose not.”

“Then wouldn’t you say that in spite of whatever complaints you may have about my attitude, that my performance as your advisor has heretofore been nothing short of excellent?”

Dukat barks out a chuckle. “ _ Professor! _ ” he laughs, as though she’s being very cheeky. “A bit of humility, if you would…”

Naprem narrowly bites back a comment about the irony of Dukat lecturing anyone on humility, of all things. “Am I wrong?”

Dukat pokes his tongue against his teeth before shifting his shoulders in acknowledgement. “You have performed… well.” He tips his head as though this is generous.

Naprem clenches her fists and ignores the trembling that goes through her chin.  _ Well? _ She’s been excellent. She’s been incredible! ‘A bit of humility’ - she’s been loyal, she’s been truthful, she’s been dutiful. She can tolerate his punishment for how she behaved, but she can’t tolerate his failure to acknowledge all the good she’s done for him. Maybe they hadn’t worked together long, but had she ever failed him? No! She’s always given him sound advice, and he can’t even act grateful.

“You realize that if I could find out the Kai was going to be here, it’s not going to be long before the entire station knows.”

“I’ll have to stress confidentiality to her security detail,” Dukat says, dismissively. 

“There are any number of groups who would like the Kai dead,” Naprem says. “Better yet, dead on your watch. Not just Cardassians, either.”

“I already have a Chief of Security,” Dukat says, folding his hands in his laps. “If you’d like, I can suggest that Lukin speak with you, prior to his full threat assessment--”

Naprem cuts him off again, the very suggestion making her grimace. “Are you prepared to observe all the proper religious protocols and ceremonies involved in something like this?”

Dukat wrinkles his nose. “Of course,” he says.

“Really?” Naprem asks, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Your predecessors left detailed notes on Bajoran religious customs?”

“Professor,” Dukat says. “What you’re suggesting is unnecessary. As you’ve said - the Kai has bestowed her approval on every man who’s held this position.”

“Yes,” Naprem admits. “She has. But, as you’ve said, Gul Dukat - we Bajorans are an irrational, passionate people. And very spiritual. And when the Kai has granted her approval unwillingly, we’ve always known - and the subjects of her  _ implied _ disapproval have been dispatched forthwith.”

Dukat’s eyes narrow once more, and his face grows grim. “Is that a  _ threat _ , Professor?”

“No,” Naprem says. “Just an acknowledgement of what you stand to lose if you don’t rise to this occasion - something which I’ll wager you’re unprepared to do without my help.”

Dukat presses his lips into a thin line. He watches her as though he’s weighing her words individually, one by one, on the scale of his reluctance. Finally, at the end of the longest possible silence, he shrugs a little and releases a deep breath. “Very well,” he says, as though it’s very kind of him to even consider this, instead of the smartest possible option.

Naprem feels a jolt of both relief and dismay cascade through her chest.

“Although,” he says, and her heart seizes, every cog in her body locking up in anticipation of whatever he might be about to say. “I have to wonder: why have you taken such a special interest in this?”

Now, it’s Naprem’s turn to wrinkle her nose and shake her head.

“It’s the Kai,” she says.

“Yes,” Dukat agrees, resting his hands comfortably beneath his sharp chin. “And?”

Naprem struggles to find words he’ll understand - she’s never mastered the art of speaking to atheists, or to anyone who doesn’t feel that warm, impossible throb under their breastbone, that effortless thrill of wonder, that affectionate lift, the effervescent, illogical magic of faith. She doesn’t know how to say to him what Kai Opaka, a stranger to her in every way but one, means to her. But then, she thinks, she doesn’t have to. He can’t understand, and she should be content to leave him to his ignorance.

Still, she says, “The Kai is one of the last remaining cultural icons my people have. I don’t want her to come to harm. Least of all when I can do something to prevent it.”

Dukat tips his head and gives her a peculiar look, but shrugs and nods in a way that says he doesn’t believe her, but that the explanation will suffice. Naprem breathes out, struggling to find something better to say.

“I live to serve,” she tries.

Dukat huffs, then throws his head back and crows with laughter. Naprem feels a flash of humiliation, remembering how he laughed at her in the holosuite.

“Oh, Tora,” he chuckles. “I doubt anything could be further from the truth.” He gets comfortable in his chair again, taking up his PADD again. “Nonetheless - you’ve convinced me. Meet here directly after clock-in. She’ll be arriving after the beginning of morning shift. We’ll be meeting her on the docking ring.”

Naprem takes a breath and her heart begins to beat again.

“Thank you, sir.”

She sees him smile - a real one this time - down at his PADD, as if that will dim its sprawling, smug hue. 

“Of course,” he says, in a disarmingly casual way.

Naprem makes her escape while he’s not looking, and holds her breath until she’s safe, alone in the lift.

* * *

 

Skrain waits until the last possible moment to call Lukin and Damar into his office before they rotate off-shift. He's a man of strategic knowhow, and he has an inkling of how they'll react.

“You can't be serious,” Lukin snarls.

“Sir,” Damar says, face creased with disbelief. “I strenuously object to this. We've already completed our security checks, adding any personnel at this time could compromise weeks of preparation.”

“Not to mention you  _ fired her _ ,” Lukin snaps. “Or am I the only one who remembers that?”

Normally, their disapproval might be a blow to Skrain’s ego, but he'd be surprised if anything could disrupt his good mood. He's oddly buoyant, surging with a delight he finds difficult to master. He's sunny with satisfaction. 

“I relieved her of duty,” he says, very calmly. “As of tonight I've reinstated it.”

“Why?” Damar asks, a strange desperation in his face.

“It's essential that we get this right,” Skrain says. “I have reason to believe Tora will be useful in placating the Kai and making a positive first impression.”

“What evidence we got that she’s not some kind of plant?” Lukin asks. “Or involved in some kind of terrorist plot?”

Skrain scoffs, almost amused by the idea. “Tora’s already been subjected to a full threat assessment.”

“Not recently. Who’s to say she didn’t run out and make a bunch of new friends since you dismissed her?”

Skrain raises an eyebrow. “I imagine that would be you, Chief. Unless you’ve been lax - I believe I was clear that Tora should be very closely monitored.”

“We’re going to change the security loadout,” Lukin says, not contesting him one way or the other. “Every soldier on duty’s going to need to be re-briefed, Lumer’s and ours.”

Skrain shakes his head and shrugs a little. “Then I suppose you’d better get started, Chief.”

Lukin snarls, spitting a “Yes, sir,” through his teeth and turning on his heel. Damar exhales slowly as he leaves, clearly struggling to contain his own disapproval.

“Sir,” he says, plaintively. “Security measures notwithstanding, I also find Tora’s motivations suspect. What reason would she have to involve herself in something like this?”

Once the doors are firmly shut, Skrain relaxes back into his chair, grinning openly. He can’t help it - he’s almost giddy with excitement. “Oh, Damar… We don’t have anything to fear. There are other reasons a woman returns than  _ terrorism _ . Don’t you think?”

Damar creases his brow in question. Skrain laughs, grins, stands from his chair with a flourish. He puts one hand to his chest, gripped by the poetic romance of the situation.

“Oh, Damar - you should’ve seen her. No, no… Tora didn’t come here to start a fight.” He shrugs haplessly. “I’m afraid she’s quite consumed with her feelings for me - really, I should have known, she’s hardly the first. She simply couldn’t stay away.”

Damar raises his brows with surprise, then, strangely, takes on an expression of deep concern.

“Sir,” he says, slowly. “Surely that’s just as dangerous as what Lukin was suggesting. Any sort of...  _ entanglement _ with Tora--”

Skrain puts his hand up to stop him. “I’m not so easily drawn astray. I don’t intend to truly entertain her feelings - understand me, Damar: I am a loyal man. Given to imagination, certainly. No one could blame me for that. But stalwart in the face of temptation. No, no, it’s simply…” 

He trails off, then laughs. “It’s flattering, don’t you think? That she’s so very taken with me. Why, she can’t control herself! She’s tried quite valiantly to make herself content with dismissal… but she’s too eager to impress me. She couldn’t stay away when she knew she might be able to make herself of use to me. I find that almost admirable.”

They walk out of the office together, down the stairs to the lift. The night crew are taking their stations as the last of the day crew filter out. They all stop to salute Skrain as he walks past and he nods a little ‘as you were,’ smiling to himself.

“Make no mistake,” he says to Damar. “I have no intention to allow her tendency towards insubordination to stand. She must be made aware of my expectations for her conduct. I believe I’ve been too forgiving until now.”

Damar looks slightly relieved. “Her file indicates #98719 has always been resistant to authority. You shouldn’t feel responsible for her puerile behavior.”

Skrain tips his head. “I’ve heard that Bajorans crave structure and discipline.”

Damar nods just so. “That stands with my own experience, sir.”

Skrain nods. “A gentle hand may be all she needs.”

Yes, that’s what she needs - a little guidance, a little structure. He’ll have to be firm with her - establish clear rules for her conduct, and take on responsibility for her discipline. But all that is manageable in the face of her feelings for him. A woman embroiled in passion is a creature the delights of whom ought to be fully savored. No doubt she’ll domesticate  _ herself _ if he only finds the right way to incentivize her. She’d been unwilling, once again, to admit her feelings for him back in his office, but her reluctance to be honest about what was so plainly between them is in its own way charming. 

What will her husband think? Skrain laughs a little at the thought. Damar raises a brow at him, but Skrain waves him off, too delighted to articulate it. Mr. Tora must resent him very deeply, indeed. 

“Meet me at my quarters at 500 hours,” he tells Damar as they reach the habitat ring. “We’ll do a final review of the itinerary.”

“Yes, sir,” Damar says. “Goodnight, sir.”

Skrain parts ways with him at the lift, walking past the officer’s quarters towards his own, still lost in his own pleasant fantasy. Has she been longing for him all this time? She could barely conjure an excuse when he’d asked her why she’d come - she’d come for  _ him _ , clearly, because she longed for his praise and his attention. How adorable she is. Has she been lying awake with him on her mind? Has she lain side-by-side with that husband of hers, consumed with thoughts of him, unable to resist her obsession with him? Oh, it’s  _ delectable _ , it’s adorable, it’s--

He stops himself a little before he can get too far into matters of impropriety. It’s enjoyable, that’s all. Nothing Athra ought to be worried about. He has no difficulty admitting that Tora Naprem is beautiful in her strange, alien way - he’d thought that from the beginning. Why wouldn’t he? It’s only an honest appraisal. She’s classically beautiful: thick-waisted with complimentary thighs, thick lips and round features, a plush stomach to denote a healthy, well-fed lifestyle, and wide hips that would be the perfect perch for a child or two. 

But all this is merely  _ entertaining _ . It’s… funny. Almost. Cute.  _ Quaint. _ It explains everything - her wildly unpredictable nature, her hyperbolic anger with him, her childish penchant for the dramatic. All this time, she’s merely been trying to capture his attention and impress him. It answers every question he’d had up until now, wraps it up cleanly in a bow. The simplest solution - of course, of course! Tora Naprem is attracted to him. Besotted, really. The poor thing - it’s almost pitiful. But then, who could blame her? She’s hardly the first woman to prove helpless to his charms, and she’s surely not the last.

Which makes this all a problem solved. He can easily anticipate her now that he knows the truth. 

He nods to the guards outside his room and lets himself in. He unpins his cape and shakes out his shoulders, slowly relaxing as he unlatches his armor. He kicks off his boots and stretches, idly trying to decide if he’d rather dress in civs and give Athra a call, or stay blissfully naked in the security of his own quarters. He’s only half-thinking about it when he decides to stay decent.

No, no - he’s still thinking about Tora. Oh, it’ll be simple, now. She’s so hungry for his attention, for his praise. Why didn’t he see it before? No, it will be all too easy to direct her, now. Her flirtation will be too transparent now that he recognizes it - her ire all show. Still, she’ll be a fine representative. She is, of course, intelligent, well-learned. He’ll simply apply her accordingly. 

He feels the giddiness in his chest transforming slowly to something else, something sticky and lurking and hot as he makes himself dinner and pours himself a glass of kanar, then two. As he reads through the itinerary, and the production numbers, and scrolls through the news feeds from Cardassia Prime, and as he tries to get through a bit more of his newest novel - a thought continues to circulate in the back of his mind of how else he might  _ apply _ Tora. Oh, it would be silly to waste that sort of interest, wouldn’t it? It would be careless...

His giddiness gives way to his hunger - a hunger much more powerful than any happiness he’s ever felt. A hunger as old as he is, if not older. Tora Naprem is a distraction. He knows that. Tora Naprem is a moment, a bit of entertainment - the first bit he’s had since he came to this little slice of the frontier. The hunger… the hunger is everlasting. The sticky heat of lust is heavy in his stomach, and in his blood.

He puts his PADD down and goes into his room to call Athra.

* * *

 

Naprem wakes up early, the muted impression of a nightmare already retreating in the sands of her mind. For just a second, as she sits up, head heavy, eyes tired, she tries to remember it, but the ghostly outlines only recede deeper as she reaches for them. She was dreaming about the cobra again - yes, that was it, a cobra as thick as her leg and twice as long as she is tall, squeezing her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. And there was something else, she thinks, something… 

But she can’t remember what it is, and as she follows the other workers to the showers, she quickly stops trying, instantly distracted by another thought with a far more robust presence: the Kai is coming today.

She tries to do an especially thorough job cleaning herself in the sonic shower. It’s almost impossible to know if she’s doing a decent job - sonic showers might be almost relaxing if they were a rarity, she thinks. But she dearly misses the feeling of hot water pouring over her body, of scrubbing the day before from her skin and letting it be washed away. She misses soap and shampoo, she misses rubbing sweetly-scented oil into her skin. Oh, to think of when bathing was a treat, an essential relaxation! 

But those days are long past, and, as far as she knows, never to return. The unbearable rattling of the sonic shower is her companion now, acoustic rumblings shaking dirt and dead skin from her body in steaming puffs. She pulls her fingers up through her hair, trying to make sure it’s getting clean, but it feels as oily and waxy as it has for years. For the first time in a long time, she feels a self-conscious sting of shame as she thinks about what she must look like. Without meaning to, she digs the pad of her thumb into the scar bissecting her left brow. The pulse of the shower jitters like bugs in her skin, and when she grits her teeth, they rattle. 

Stepping back into her clothes is another stinging welt to the back of her pride. Their clothes may be decontaminated daily, but they were ugly and formless to begin with - Naprem was denied a new uniform under the disciplinary conditions of her transfer, and a year of constant wear has rendered her plain  _ ganko _ style high-collared tunic a bland gray-brown color that makes the entire thing look constantly stained. The armpits  _ are _ stained, which heightens her embarrassment; so too are the legs of her pants, which bite in at the hips and always have. They’re a size too small. She pulls them on, and her  _ marna _ style vest, which she salvaged years ago at Cibawea from a Cardassian officer’s discarded rucksack, and she thinks about meeting the Kai, dressed, quite literally, in trash. 

She suddenly wants nothing more than to go back to bed.

She struggles to eat at breakfast - she tries to force herself, but her stomach is roiling.  _ Eat _ , she tells herself,  _ eat, who knows when you’ll eat next, any meal could be your last for a long time coming, eat, you have a long day ahead of you… _ They’ve smothered the alva meat in yamok sauce again. All at once she finds herself wishing a violent  _ something _ on the house of whoever’s responsible for the damn yamok sauce - and whoever keeps managing to burn the rice. ‘Conquerors of the galaxy,’ ‘the greatest military in the Alpha Quadrant,’ and they can’t get  _ rice _ right.

Naprem had met Kai Meressa twice, though the first time she’d been young - very young, only five or six. It had been at an exhibition of her mother’s, one of the first she’d been allowed to attend. Sometimes she thinks she remembers something about it, but she’s probably only imagining that - the curve of Meressa’s smile, the smell of incense thick along the sleeves of her  _ marna kai, _ the obliging softness of her fingers. She’d been newly elected Kai, then. It would be decades before the Yerrin Syndrome set in.

Naprem promptly decides not to think about the second time they met. She doesn’t need to feel any worse than she already does. It hadn’t been her finest moment, and there’s no point lingering on a past that has long ceased to be relevant. Meressa is gone, and so is the Bajor that pitted her and Naprem against one another. 

The work siren sounds just as Naprem’s finishing her rice. She returns her tray to the replicator pad and moves past the guards near the bunks to retrieve her personal PADD from the locker Dukat assigned her. She tucks it to her chest and hurries to clock in, and then to the lift to Operations, a slight hitch in her chest when she tries to breathe.

Directly after clock-in, hadn’t he said? In his office, hadn’t he said? Her memory feels so muddy today - that  _ is _ what he said, isn’t it? She didn’t dream it?

(No, of course she didn’t - though, would that have been any less a nightmare than the one with the cobra? The heavy, caustic slurry of anxiety in her chest is a resounding  _ no. _ )

She takes a deep shuddering breath just before the lift reaches Operations, and once she’s there, she puts her head down and tries to be very small and unobtrusive. It doesn’t matter - she puts her head down and tries to be very small, and everyone -  _ everyone _ \- stares. 

She makes it into Dukat’s office with her ears buzzing and her cheeks aflame.

“Ah,” she hears him say, “Professor. How good of you to join us.”

That’s when she lifts her head and realizes that, for the first time since she started, Damar and Lukin are already here, flanking either side of Dukat’s desk. They’re both staring at her, like she’s interrupted something very important, and Naprem’s cheeks feel as though they’ve been branded. Her whole face goes numb as anxiety leapfrogs over dismay in her throat. 

“I…” She stops. She has no idea where she intends to go with this sentence, and so instead bows her head and opts for a simple, singular, “Good morning, Gul Dukat.”

Dukat smiles, slow and savory; she hasn’t the slightest idea why. Damar, too, takes her in with an acerbic look she can’t quantify. But Lukin seems satisfied with her stuttering and genuflection. He turns back to Dukat as though Naprem isn’t there at all, and jumps back into a conversation she has only the most rudimentary context for. 

“Like I was saying,” he starts. “We’ll be taking this route here.” He leans over the desk and points to something on the screen of a PADD. They all three lean in over it, frowning down at what Naprem can only guess is a map. “I’ve posted units here,” Lukin points, “here,” he points, “here, and here.”

“Are we expecting trouble?” Dukat asks. 

“Expecting it?” Lukin repeats. “No. Are we  _ ready _ for it? Yes, sir.”

Dukat smiles again, a little more broadly. “Excellent,” he says, looking it over. “I take it you’ve increased my entourage.”

“By two,” Lukin agrees.

“By one,” Dukat says, still surveying the PADDs in front of him. “She’ll only have two attendants of her own, I don’t want to look like I’m overcompensating for something.”

“All due respect, sir,” Damar says, frowning. “It does us no harm to have another of Lukin’s men at our disposal.”

“It clutters the hallway,” Dukat says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And it harms the integrity of our image. We have this station under control. There’s no reason to give her any impression to the contrary. Wouldn’t you agree, Professor?”

Naprem comes to with a start - they’d ignored her for so long, she was almost certain she’d turned invisible somehow. She fumbles with her words, trying to come up with something worthwhile to say.

“How many were in your entourage already?” she asks, trying to summon some courage to her voice.

“Four,” Dukat says.

“And with the additions Security Chief Lukin is suggesting?”

“Six.”

“And the four of us?” Naprem asks. “That’s ten people.” She looks at Lukin, who’s glaring at her with untold malice. Her voice stoppers, and it’s a second before she can uncork it again. “I struggle to understand the threat you might be anticipating to think such a large reception would be necessary.”

“The Kai’s attendants are an unknown element,” Lukin snaps.

“The Kai’s attendants will be vedeks, who’ll likely have the combined muscle density of a bullfrog. Do you really think it’ll take nine fullgrown Cardassian soldiers to subdue them?”

Lukin snarls under his breath, but Dukat barks out a laugh and puts his hands out in a  _ what did I tell you? _ gesture.

“One more it is then,” he says.

Lukin snarls, fists clenched at his sides, but he tips his head in deference.

The door slides open - Naprem starts again, skittering away from it to make way for whoever's coming, but it’s only Gil Micas, who pokes his young face into the office with her same wariness. “Gul Dukat? We just received a call from the  _ Rhirzum _ . They’ll be arriving within the hour.”

“Thank you, Gil Micas,” Dukat says, waving him away. As the door shuts behind him, Dukat turns his palms up in another gesture of goodwill. “I suppose that brings us to you, Professor.”

“Me?” Naprem asks. 

Dukat raises an eyebrow expectantly, folding his hands in front of them. “I was given to believe from our…  _ discussion _ yesterday that certain… religious observances should be made.”

Naprem opens her mouth, feeling cornered even with a working door right behind her. Even having prepared a bit for this conversation, she feels overwhelmed with all there is to say. She swallows, not liking the way all three Cardassians are staring at her.

“I… yes. Um…” She swallows again - there’s still a stubborn lump in her throat that she hasn’t the slightest idea how to dislodge. “Well, of course you all will have… thoroughly bathed this morning.”

“Of course,” Dukat says.

Lukin scoffs. “What? Is the Kai scared of mites?”

Naprem presses her weight into her heels, pursing her lips against the upwelling of anger along her gums. “The Kai is a religious figure of unparalleled connection to the divine,” she says, willing herself not to be so sharp about it. “Personal hygiene and cleanliness is…” She stutters, stumbling as she glances down at her own stained, bedraggled clothes. “...an absolute must, in anyone fortunate enough to meet her. Especially of the hands and ears.”

“What else?” Damar asks, clearly wishing they could be done with this already.

Naprem chews her lip, trying to be less nervous. “The Kai is properly addressed as ‘Your Eminence.’ She won’t be introduced to you; though you, Glinn Damar, should introduce Gul Dukat when prompted.”

“Thinks she’s above all that?” Lukin sneers.

“She’s never introduced,” Naprem says, shaking her head a little. “It isn’t an insult, it’s tradition. Furthermore, to the point, she doesn’t need to be. You already know who she is.”

“She already knows who I am,” Dukat says, calmly.

“It’s a show of respect,” Naprem says.

“Fine,” Damar says.

“She may reach for you,” Naprem says, “after meeting you - Cardassians don’t have external ears, so I’m not sure what she’ll touch. She’ll be trying to feel your  _ pagh _ .”

“His what?” Lukin snaps.

“My  _ pagh _ ,” Dukat replies, before Naprem can intercede. “The spiritual force which connects all living things.”

Naprem nods, gratitude rippling beneath her breastbone. “She may pinch or grab you. It won’t be with any intent to harm you.”

“Sir,” Lukin says, showing his teeth. “This cannot be allowed--”

But Dukat puts a hand up to stay his tongue. “Very well,” he says. “Is there anything else?”

Naprem pulls her hands behind her back and takes a breath. “The final piece isn’t…  _ required _ so much as polite.” She swallows. “I believe it would be in your best interest in making a positive first impression… to greet the Kai with a gift.”

There’s an audible pause. All three Cardassians turn to look at her, each in an obvious state of confusion. Dukat, for his part, blinks slowly.

“A gift?” he repeats.

“It doesn’t have to be anything big,” Naprem says, sprinting ahead so he can’t jump to conclusions before she has a chance to put down padding. “Something… small and simple would be appropriate. A bottle of Bajoran spring wine perhaps. Or something with personal significance to you.”

Dukat raises a brow ridge, looking unconvinced. “There’s no record of any other Prefect presenting the Kai with a gift.”

“I know,” Naprem says, “I realize that. It’s… Perhaps an… outdated tradition, now.” Her pride as an  _ ih’valla _ smarts as she says it, but she does her best not to let that infect her even tone. “But if you want to put your best foot forward and impress her, observing this tradition would be an excellent way to do it. It’s not as if it would be particularly taxing.”

“Excuse me?” Damar says, and she knows instantly that she’s said the wrong thing.

“I only mean,” she says, trying to be more careful, “it would be  _ very _ easy for you, of all people, to bring something--”

“Watch your tone, Tora,” Damar barks, and Naprem’s taken aback by his directness. She jerks her mouth closed, glancing at Dukat to see if he’s going to allow this, but he flexes his fingers and says nothing, and his acquiescence makes her burn. She looks down, exhaling sharply.

“I only mean,” she says, “that as the Prefect of this planet, it would be seen as an act of generosity and respect if you were to bring a humble gift to present to the Kai, upon meeting her. It would give her a good impression of the content of your character.”

Dukat snorts a little, leaning back in his chair. “I’m afraid I don’t agree, Professor.”

Naprem wrinkles her nose, frowning. “With what?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s appropriate. For one thing, nice though the thought may be, I don’t believe I need to make any impressions on the Kai pertaining to my  _ generosity. _ ” He turns his hands palms-up and spreads them, demonstratively. “I feel my actions as Prefect already speak to my generous disposition.”

Naprem stares at him in disbelief. He doesn’t seem to notice, and goes on:

“Furthermore, it would be highly inappropriate for a man of my stature to give a gift to anyone with whom I was not involved with on a… deeply personal level.” The way he says these words unnerves her for some reason. “For a Cardassian, gifts aren’t the sort of thing you simply… hand out, very less to a professional colleague you intend to impress.” He shrugs. “I’m afraid what you’re suggesting is quite gaudy.”

Naprem narrows her eyes, shaking her head a little. “It needn’t be anything… gregarious.”

“I’m afraid it’s not something I can afford,” Dukat says.

Naprem stares at him, open-mouthed, more consternation flowing through her than blood.

“You’re the Prefect of this  _ planet _ ,” she says, as though he needs reminding.

“Oh, I don’t materially, Professor - please. Deliberate obstinacy doesn’t suit you. I mean it’s a poor political move.”

“If it were, I wouldn’t be advising it!”

Dukat shakes his head with a soft, sympathetic smirk. “By your own admission, this ‘gift’ business isn’t a requirement - it’s a suggestion. And while I appreciate your thoroughness, I’m afraid I must decline.”

And all that wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t say it as though it was generous of him to even consider it. Naprem redacts the moment of gratitude she felt towards him - she’s doesn’t think she’s ever in her life met someone so profoundly selfish. In fact, the more she thinks about it, the longer she stares at him, the larger her heart swells with contempt. He’s the Prefect. He could bring her anything he wanted; he owns all of Bajor, and for what? So he can refuse to offer even the paltriest of this land’s riches to its own living avatar. 

Dukat clearly senses her distaste - he frowns a little in her direction. “I’ll be observing every other tradition you mentioned,” he says, clearly trying to placate her. “And we are, by all standards, welcoming and accommodating her as our guest. If she fails to recognize that - well, Professor, then I suppose our best efforts will have been in vain.”

_ Best efforts, _ she wants to say,  _ best efforts? _ But he stands without inviting her to reply, and Damar and Lukin follow him as he struts out of the office. Naprem has no choice but to follow.

They step into the lift, and she just can’t stop thinking about it. She looks at his empty hands; he holds them behind his back, shoulders loose, standing tall with his chest jutting proudly forward. It could be anything. A small box of traditional confectionery. A data rod containing a play or a novel. But no - no, of course not. No small concession from the Prefect of Bajor. She looks down, fury building in her chest like a capped geyser.

She bites her lip.  _ Be quiet _ , she tells herself. She tries to channel B’hava’el.  _ Be smart. You just got this job back, don’t go throwing it away over nothing. _

But it  _ isn’t _ nothing. Well - perhaps literally it is, but isn't that the point? Her mother would faint dead away if she could see her now, heading to a meeting with the Kai with no gift in hand. Maybe everyone else can afford to forget the old traditions, but Naprem was born to preserve them - that was her duty, prescribed to her by the Prophets and by her birthright. She spent her whole life warring against that idea, but now it sings in her bones and rings in her ears. If anyone needs to protect the old traditions, it ought to be her.

And how can he be so  _ selfish? _ They have replicators! It would cost him  _ nothing _ ! 

The lift opens onto the promenade, and Naprem finds herself shocked from her reverie by the pervading quiet. The rowdy, raucous life that usually characterizes the promenade, even at this hour, is gone, replaced by guards on either side of the walkway. The shops are shuttered, though still lit. Even the doors to Quark’s are closed, though they barely contain the carousing within. With a sinking feeling, Naprem realizes she’s the only Bajoran in sight. All the other workers have been spirited off somewhere, no doubt forced to forfeit their few off hours to either retire early or return to work in the mines.

They cross to another lift, and without any announcement, another two Cardassians join them. Naprem stands in the back, feeling very small among so many towering bodies. No one looks at her.

When they disembark, they’re in an area of the station where Naprem has never been before. It’s darkly lit and quiet, carpet muffling her footsteps. They walk down a long hallway lined with doors and even more guards, two more of whom leave their posts to join their party. Lukin stops one and shakes his head.

“Prefect only asked for one,” he says, gruffly. The two guards share a look. “Well?” Lukin says, expectantly, and without a word, the second guard backs down and takes his post with notable reluctance. 

They continue on down the corridor. It feels increasingly eerie that no one is speaking - the soldiers march along in silence, only the soft shift of fabric and armor giving them away at all. Even Dukat is quiet, which may be the most unnerving thing of all. He keeps his head high, hands held behind his back, and says nothing except to nod to certain soldiers as he passes, all of whom bow their heads in deference.

Just when it’s beginning to seem as though they may be walking forever, they turn a bend and the hall grows wider, and more well lit. On one side of the hall stands a series of ramps leading to large, round mechanisms in the wall. Through the small glass viewports, Naprem can see dark, twinkling space beyond. Her heart catches in the back of her mouth.  _ The docking ring _ , she realizes. They’re on the docking ring.

Their procession continues on, past several more of these huge, circular door panels, until finally they all come to a halt in front of one in particular - the only one, Naprem realizes, flanked by soldiers. Without a word, their congregation organizes itself: Dukat steps to the front, and Damar and Lukin take up their places beside him. Lukin’s five soldiers form a row behind them. Naprem looks around, disoriented, wondering if she was the only one who didn’t receive instructions. Lukin turns to glower at her, and she bites her lip, head buzzing with confusion and embarrassment. She scuttles into a small space just behind Dukat, who glances down at her.

She opens her mouth to defend herself. “I--”

“It’s alright,” he says, as though he can’t be bothered to chastise her. “That will do.”

She blushes and looks down at the floor. She’s vibrating with nervousness, and somehow his disregard is more infuriating still. They didn’t tell her any of this, how is he going to stand there and act like she should know where she’s supposed to stand? This is where she usually stands when they’re doing rounds - just a foot or two behind his left elbow - and isn’t this as good as anywhere? She looks around, but she can’t see where it would make any sense to move. Who else is she supposed to stand besides? Lukin? Damar? Is she supposed to be behind the soldiers altogether? 

Is she not supposed to be here at all?

Then, she looks up - the circular door mechanism hums and clicks, then slowly rolls aside. A halo of golden light falls across the carpet at Dukat’s feet. And all at once, her fury is replaced with a strange mix of dread and awe as the Kai, in all her splendor, slowly descends from the docking platform.

Kai Opaka is a short, soft woman with an oddly ageless face. Her  _ marna kai _ robes are exceedingly traditional - flowing and elegant, cupping her round face with a reverence Naprem feels herself mirror. Behind her, her two attendants almost turn invisible. Opaka projects such power and presence so easily that it seems to dwarf everything else in the room. Naprem finds herself staring at the floor, unable to look up - her heart hammers in her chest, making her head feel dangerously light.

Before she can fully cast her eyes down, she's surprised by another figure ducking through the open doorway - a towering Cardassian with an unmanageable puff of headfeathers and what appears to be a permanent frown. He nods to Dukat, brusquely cutting around the Kai to stand beside the doorway.

“Gul Dukat,” he grunts.

“Gul Lumer,” Dukat nods. And then, looking past him: “Your Eminence.” Naprem feels rather than sees him puff up, inflating to almost twice his normal ego. 

Opaka slowly descends the stairs, her steps short and deliberate. She stops not far from him, and gazes up into his face, silently. Then, she gestures with one hand for him to proceed.

Damar steps forward, sighing, as if any production at all is more than he can be expected to bear without complaint. “May I humbly present the Prefect of Bajor, Gul Dukat of the Second Order.”

Naprem’s breath catches in her throat - for just a moment, she lifts her gaze to see Opaka narrow her eyes just so, taking him in slowly. Then, the pressure proves too much. She lets her eyes drop, and they slide involuntarily down to Dukat’s empty hands, which he neither profers to shake, nor bears laden with an appropriate gift. 

The labradorite pendant of her d’ja pagh bumps against the side of her throat.

All at once, her panic begins to catch up with her. She can’t believe they’re all standing here, silently, and not one person - not  _ one _ Cardassian among them - has brought a gift to offer her. They’re all standing here empty handed, as though they have nothing to give, even after they’ve robbed Bajor of almost everything. It’s unconscionable. It’s  _ absurd _ , it’s--

Naprem clutches her PADD to her chest. She has nothing. They have everything, and she has nothing, and here she is, standing within three feet of the Kai, and she has nothing to give. 

She bites her lip. Her body starts to shake as she’s overcome by a tidal wave of shame. She has nothing to give. Her PADD can’t be given away. Her clothes are hideous and dirty. She has nothing at all worth giving. 

Except--

Her breath catches in her throat. She reaches up with trembling hands and, before she can lose her nerve, unclips her d’ja pagh from her ear. She carefully pulls loose the cuff, and spools the thin silver in her hands. 

It’s been a long time since she pulled it loose and looked at it. It’s horribly dirty, just like the rest of her - tarnished and old. The silver disc that once bore her family crest is all but worn smooth. The silver of the cuff and chain is a tarnished grey. The purple labradorite of the pendant, too, is scuffed and scratched from years of mistreatment. But it still glimmers in the light, prismatic and iridescent. 

Opaka is still staring wordlessly at Dukat, and so Naprem screws her courage to the sticking place, tucks her PADD beneath her elbow, and cautiously offers it with both hands, dread too heavy for her to pull her eyes from the floor.

“Blessings be upon you, Your Eminence,” she says, unable to work her voice up from a whisper.

Nothing but silence greets her. She chances, ever so briefly, a look upwards: Kai Opaka is looking at her directly, and meeting her eyes gives Naprem a brain freeze. She locks up, stumbles, stutters her words.

“ _ Un’naz’gul _ ,” she says, slipping unwillingly into the old phrases. “Please accept this humble offering, for I having nothing else to give.”

Another wave of silence. She can feel everyone in the congregation turning to face her now, Lumer most especially, and she fears for a moment that Dukat was right - that this is inappropriate, an unnecessary embarrassment from which there will now be no recovering. Her hand begins to shake and sweat, and so does she. Dread consumes her, making her tremble.

And then, she feels a gentle hand on her own, pushing her fingers closed around her d’ja pagh. She looks up, and finds Opaka standing there, emanating a warmth that is simultaneously familiar and utterly foreign to her.

“It would be impossible to accept so generous a gift,” she says. Her voice is like raw honey - bittersweet and serene. “It is enough of a gift to be held in such high esteem by one with such a bold and selfless heart.”

Naprem pulls her hand back towards her, breath hiccuping and stuttering in her throat. She can’t find enough breath in her chest to reply. 

Opaka smiles at her slowly. Then, she offers her hand. Naprem nods hurriedly, and presents her ear, and Opaka takes it between her soft fingers, slowly running them along the shell.

“What is your name, my child?”

“Tora Naprem, Your Eminence.”

Opaka hums thoughtfully in a way that instantly makes Naprem very nervous. “Tora Naprem,” she repeats. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

There's a chuff of laughter from Gul Lumer. “Haven't we all,” he says, and the look he gives her is far from charitable. In her periphery, Naprem feels Dukat bristle.

Naprem struggles not to balk. “Only… good things, I hope. Your Eminence.”

Opaka offers a surprisingly wry smile and says nothing further for a moment or two. She pinches Naprem’s upper ear, then slides her fingers down to squeeze her lobe. “You have a tremendously strong pagh, my child,” she says, at last. “Forceful. Effervescent. You cannot feel guilty when it draws the attention of others.”

Naprem feels her cheeks go bright red, glowing like embers. She doesn’t have to look around to know she’s doing  _ plenty _ of that at this very moment. Dukat is staring at her openly, eyes somehow both narrowed and wide with bewilderment, brows creased, ridges oddly pale. She doesn’t have time to interpret his expression - she’s too busy scrambling for her words, trying to find something intelligent to say. 

In the end, a heartfelt “thank you,” is all she can manage.

Opaka nods, as though this will suffice, and withdraws her fingers to turn to Dukat. She holds her hand in the same way, patiently awaiting his permission. Dukat looks from the Kai to Naprem, his face still mottled with that expression Naprem can’t read. Then, he nods a little, and his guards visibly tense. Lukin is glowering over as Opaka reaches up to run her fingers up the side of Dukat’s face, pushing them along the ridges that cup his gaunt cheeks. She traces along his aural ridge slowly, a thoughtful expression on her face, then, after a while, she hums, and takes back her hand.

“Does something trouble you, Gul Dukat?”

Dukat straightens sharply, looking perturbed. Then, alarmingly, he smiles: cool, political, and all teeth.

“Not at all, Your Eminence. Well,” he says, interrupting himself, “I suppose you can't fault me for feeling a bit… apprehensive. It's not every day one gets the opportunity to make their first impression on the Kai… now is it?”

He looks around at his men and smiles a little more broadly, though no more warmly.

“Forgive me,” he says to them, “I am a man of candor.” He turns back to Opaka with a showman’s flourish. “I've been anticipating this meeting for quite some time.”

“As have I, Gul Dukat,” Opaka says. “I believe we have a great deal to discuss - on the behalf of your people as well as mine.”

“Why, then by all means - please,” he says, gesturing to the hallway. “Right this way. My men will be happy to accompany you to my office.”

Opaka nods, and without another word, their procession begins to make its way back towards the lift, Lukin and his cadets leading the way. Dukat turns to Lumer, countenance billowing with that same waxy charm.

“Gul Lumer,” he says. “It was my understanding that you wished to remain aboard your ship.”

“By your leave,” Lumer says.

“Of course,” Dukat says, with a little flourish. “Naturally, you’re welcome to partake our fine station’s amenities at your leisure, should you feel the inclination. And I  _ do _ extend a humble invitation to dine with me this evening, if you so choose.”

Lumer offers a distinctly toothy sneer, wafting unfriendliness.

“All due respect,” he says, “I believe I've seen all of this station that I need to.” He casts a significant look in Naprem’s direction and scoffs, before offering a bow to Dukat that's clearly all show, and walking back up the ramp to his ship.

As the door rolls shut behind him, the group filters out - first Lukin and his cadets, then the Kai and her attendants, then the soldiers behind them. Damar takes up the rear, walking quickly, and Naprem hurries after him, loathe to be left behind.

But before she can get far, a hand closes around her wrist.

“Professor,” Dukat says, coldly. “A word.”

Naprem's hardly turned around before Dukat pulls her to the side, out of sight of the departing procession. She sees Damar glance back, then hurry onward with a dutiful grimace. Her heart thuds in her chest, her d’ja pagh pricking at the inside of her palm.

Dukat’s face is a mask of anger, rigid and set as plaster, and it frightens her. His grip on her wrist is unyielding as he hauls her out of the pool of light cast through the viewport, where the shadows that hug his ridges are deeper and longer.

“Gul Dukat--” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“How often do you think I reverse my decisions, Tora?” His voice is frighteningly calm, and the question disarms her.

“What?”

“How  _ often _ ,” he says, and he punctuates his words with a squeeze that makes her mouth fall open in silent protest, “do you think I reverse… my decisions?”

“I…”

“Would you believe the answer was… never?” Dukat pulls her closer, leaning in, looking over her. His ridges are fanning out, teeth gleaming. “Would you believe, in all my career, I had never been given adequate reason to reverse a ruling I had made - and that I made an  _ exception _ … for you?”

She can't find her words - her body is quivering in his grip, shaking, wrist bruising beneath his hand. The cold boil of fear in her gut is a bitter contrast to the awe that still lingers in her fingertips. She trembles, mouth working as she tries to find something to say. She's struck dumb by her terror of him - the unbearable fear of what he might be about to do to her.

“I-- I'm sorry, I didn't mean--”

“Didn't  _ mean _ …?” Dukat hisses. “Oh, Tora, your intentions are overwhelmingly clear to me - so allow me to be clear with  _ you _ : I am not the sort of man who  _ tolerates _ this sort of humiliation lightly.”

“I wasn't trying to humiliate you, I--”

“Have I not been good to you, Tora? Have I not been… forgiving?” He turns his head, peering at her. “I  _ graciously _ gave you a second chance to redeem yourself in my eyes - but somehow, you seem to struggle to understand that when I give an order, I expect to be obeyed. Perhaps you're not as intelligent as I was led to believe.”

His words strike at the flintwheel of her anger, but the sparks ignite nothing. Her fear is too great - it smothers that quick upwelling of strength fury always gives her, leaving her insides heavy and damp.

“I wasn’t trying to defy you,” she says, so desperate to say something to curb his cruelty that she chooses what is, at best, an outright lie. “You said you didn’t wish to present the Kai with a gift - you didn’t say anything about me--”

Dukat bears his teeth in a flash of gleaming white-green that leaves her shocked speechless again. ”I never need say anything about you,” he snarls. “You are an instrument of my will - when I _ will it _ , you act, and  _ never _ otherwise!”

The flintwheel spins again, and in her chest, something catches and begins to smoke.

“I’m not an instrument,” she snaps. “I’m a person - the Kai is the leader of my faith, and--”

“The  _ Kai? _ ” Dukat repeats, a strange, manic gleam in his eye. “The Kai is  _ figurehead.  _ An ornament. She is a tool of manipulation that you Bajorans inflict upon yourselves.”

Naprem tastes smoke in the back of her mouth: acidic, bitter, hot. “That’s not true,” she croaks.

“Oh, but Professor,” Dukat says. “It is. The days that you could pretend otherwise are long past. You’re no longer an independent actor - your actions are overseen and in service to the Cardassian Union. And if you, or the Kai, or any Bajoran fails to be useful in that capacity--well.” He shakes his head, shrugs loosely. “I don’t intend to be gruesome. But you’ll be done away with.”

“I don’t exist to be useful to you,” Naprem snaps. “If you regret giving me a second chance, that's your own business, but I told you what would be culturally appropriate, and if I chose to observe when you didn't, that was between me and my faith -  _ my people _ .”

Dukat’s face flexes with displeasure, ridges paling, eyes flashing. “Your people?” he echoes. “Your people are nothing - this  _ mess _ of an Occupation and that antiquated, doddering old  _ fool _ are the only legacy you have. I'm the only one doing anything to save this miserable planet - which makes me the only person on this station whom you should be trying to impress.”

Naprem opens her mouth to argue - to say something, anything in her defense - but the echoing silence in her mind only impresses upon her what she already knows, what Dukat’s level glare says as plainly as anything else:  _ you have nothing. You  _ **_are_ ** _ nothing. _

But in the vacuum her anger catches flame, billowing brightly in her chest.

“At least I have the decency to be barren by virtue of having been  _ robbed _ ,” she says between her teeth. “Instead of having simply been  _ born _ nothing, like every Cardassian who's ever lived.”

Dukat’s face floods anew with an anger so deep it's incandescent, and for a moment they light the hallway, each a bonfire unto their own.

And then, he tears her d’ja pagh out of her closed fist, wrenching her fingers apart to take it from her. 

“No!” she gasps, but it’s too late - he whips his fist back and flings it across the room, and she hears it go softly winging out into the dark. She runs before she can stop herself, hurling herself after it, scrambling to where she heard it land. Her knees hit the floor - she skids to a stop, fumbling for it, heart hammering.  _ No _ , it whimpers,  _ no, no, no _ \--

She finds it in the dark, fingers scraping it by chance, and gathers it to her with a gasp. Her neck throbs with her racing pulse, her wrist hot and aching, and when she looks back, Dukat is gone, and she’s on her knees in the docking ring, alone.

* * *

 

Skrain meets Damar and Lukin at the lift - they’ve held it for him. As he steps aboard, Damar looks at him for confirmation; Skrain shakes his head just so, and Damar bows his head.

Silent. Instant.  _ Easy. _ That’s how it should be, he thinks - Damar is the perfect second, a model all should emulate. 

Apart from this, Skrain struggles with any variety of ordered thought. His entire body is  _ pulsing _ with rage. He’s sure his ridges are flooded with it, his throat swollen with it - his tail is rigid with it, and so is his spine. Every soldier in the elevator stands a little straighter, clearly sensing his displeasure, giving into the supplicating instinct to appease him. His mood is bruise black. His fists tighten, claws extending, biting into the flesh of his palm.

How  _ dare _ she - how  _ dare she! _

Skrain Dukat rarely thinks of himself as a man with a temper - a man that ought to be feared. But never in his  _ life _ has he faced such repeated, flagrant insubordination. After everything he’d done - allowing her back after her outburst in the holosuite, defending his forgiveness of her not even to Damar and Lukin, but to  _ himself. _ Well, clearly that much had been a mistake, the likes of which he won’t be repeating. Tora Naprem will have to be dealt with. Severely. She’ll have to be made an example of. 

\--the  _ gall _ of her! Presenting the Kai with a gift, after he’d made his decision on the matter perfectly clear. Not even stupidity could excuse such an act - she’d conspired against him! She’d  _ conspired _ to humiliate him in front of Gul Lumer and his men, and he’d allowed it! He’s too kind, he thinks. That’s his problem. His father’s always maintained that his soft heart will be his undoing. In his head, he can hear the old man shouting in that towering, merciless timber of his, the voice of a Chief Archon, the thunderous roar that rattles the windows and paints the walls:  _ Over five decades of military training and experience, undone by a  _ **_second_ ** _ of foolish compassion! _ What had she done to earn such unprecedented kindness from him? To render him so willing, so pliant, so  _ foolish _ as to trust her? The treacherous little thing. Oh, he’ll ruin her - he’ll  _ unmake _ her, he’ll--

The lift doors open and he strides out, anger still pouring off him in a torrent. The procession follows him down the empty thoroughfare of the Promenade, and with a flick of his hand he dismisses half of them. The rest step into the lift to accompany him to Ops.

It was his own fault for entertaining delusions of her better nature. His own fault for  _ believing her _ when she'd come to beg his forgiveness - he’d allowed her to avoid true supplication as a credit to her pride. But now her intentions are clear. His own fault, had he said? No! She’d manipulated him, the cunning little vole - she’d played upon his supposition of her virtue, her valor, her morality. No woman possessed of virtue could possibly have gone to such trouble to make a fool of him. She’d tricked him, that's what it is. She’d made him believe she might care for him, might have fallen victim to his charms - and perhaps she has. In fact, of course she has! So tempestuous and disloyal a creature can be explained by no other logic. But it's no excuse. His fists tighten evermore, and a bitter, contemptuous look lances across his face before he forces it down. He has forgiven Tora Naprem's inability to submit to him for the last time.

As he steps off the turbo lift, soldiers jump up from their consoles to salute him. He stalks across the room, not nearly mollified, and it's only as he's walking into his office that he realizes he's completely forgotten to make conversation with the Kai. Damar and Lukin lead her in with her attendants, and he doesn't immediately turn around to face them. For just a moment, he stares out of the viewport directly behind his desk, hands folded behind his back. He stares at himself in the reflection, forces himself to breathe deeply.

Then, he turns around.

“Forgive my speechlessness,” he tells the Kai. “I thought any discussion might be better conducted somewhere more… private.”

“Not at all,” says the Kai. “I'm certain you have a lot on your mind - though, perhaps we should begin. We have a great deal to discuss.”

Skrain smiles, tightly, and gestures to the chair. Damar meets his eyes, and again interprets what he wants without being asked - he nods, and leaves with Lukin and the attendants. 

“I trust you have been well under Gul Lumer’s supervision.”

“I remain unharmed and in good physical health,” the Kai says. “If that is your standard for wellness.”

Skrain narrows his eyes and smiles a little wider. “What other standard is there, Your Eminence?”

“A healthful living body can belie the suffering of the spirit, Gul Dukat.” The Kai cocks her head to the side just so, the rest of her remaining composed and still. “But I'm certain you don't wish to talk about suffering just yet - I was surprised to see the station so quiet.”

Skrain shifts in his seat, fighting the urge to grimace. The word  _ ungrateful _ rings through his head. Anger froths beneath his skin as though on the hide of a riding hound. He finds her ambiguity infuriating - the way she speaks irritates him in ways he'd struggle to ignore even if he weren't coming off a fresh snap of his temper.

“We have tried to keep things as orderly as possible for your visit,” he says. “The station is perfectly safe, of course, but we've taken extra…  _ precautions _ , to assure your health and safety.”

“I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to,” the Kai says, tipping her nose down in an ingratiating gesture. 

But then, before he can begin to lower his guard, she goes and says the one thing she shouldn’t.

“I was pleased to learn you’d taken steps to integrate a Bajoran aide into your personal staff,” she says, and Skrain feels his nostrils flare. “She seems like a very nice young woman. Fine moral caliber, if her pagh is any indication.”

Skrain grits his teeth, white-hot red flashing behind his eyes. He drags his claws slowly along the surface of the table, filled with a venomous fury he struggles not to expend.

“The position was one I planned to create even before I accepted the Prefecture,” he says, just barely managing to keep his tone civil. “Tora has filled it… satisfactorily.” The word is dry and tasteless in his mouth. “However, it seems fitting that you should come to visit at what would appear to be the… end. Of her tenure with us.”

“Oh?” the Kai asks. “There’s someone else you have in mind for the position?”

Skrain shrugs with his lips, pushing one into the other. “We’re considering all our options. If the idea appeals to you, I welcome any suggestions we might consider when picking a new candidate.”

The Kai nods. “Hm,” she says, looking down at her lap. “Hm.” She shifts in her chair, pulling her shoulders back, a thoughtful crease to her brow. 

“Forgive my presumption, Gul Dukat,” she says at last, “But in my opinion, I think you’re well served by the aide you already have.”

Rage is a sensuous twist of hot and cold in Skrain’s chest - corkscrewing slowly into the machinery of his heart, pouring ink and bile into his blood. He smiles icily across the table.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” he says.

“I’m curious as to why you’d seek another,” the Kai says, pushing into even more unwelcome territory.

Skrain makes a show of rolling his shoulders, shaking his head. “I’m afraid it isn’t the sort of matter I’m comfortable discussing outside of the affected parties.”

“That’s just it,” the Kai insists. “Such a decision renders us  _ both _ affected parties. You have chosen Tora Naprem to act as a representative on the behalf of the Bajoran people. I would maintain you’ve chosen well.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Skrain says, annoyance growing. “But I’m afraid the matter is private - and that I must resolve it in spite of your apparent misgivings.”

“You said she’s served you satisfactorily?”

Skrain pushes his teeth together so tightly that his jaw aches. He smiles, close-mouthed. “So I did,” he says, though he’s barely able to gag out the words.

There aren’t words enough to describe how angry he is - the mere thought of Tora Naprem works the bellows to stoke the fires of his rage, and silently, he’s spiraling through the whole thing all over again. Her gall, her blatant disrespect of him - the sickening lust that had gripped him for just a moment, not hours prior, when he’d thought he’d understood her. But he doesn’t, does he? He doesn’t understand a single one of them - he doesn’t understand the Kai’s interest or her insistence any better than he understands her relevance. He’s the  _ Prefect of this planet _ \- any animal with a keen survival instinct would realize he’s a man to be obeyed, to be submitted to, to be pleased. And yet, every Bajoran he meets can’t seem to understand that simple dynamic, those simple facts of survival. He understands, now, what Darhe’el’s chuckling about when he speaks of them as “prey without instinct”: they don’t even realize when they’re in the presence of their superiors. They look their own Prefect in the face, and, in full ignorance of the facts, suppose they’re his equal.

“I’d heard she was instrumental in informing your decision to alter the nutrition guidelines for Bajoran workers,” the Kai says. “And in reforming the policies regarding sleeping and recreational hours.”

“That would be accurate,” Skrain says, just short of terse.

“That she’d been instrumental in setting up an elementary education program onboard this station, following your decision to ban child labor.”

“I suppose that’s also true.”

“That she’d stood with you during the attempted coup some months ago.”

Skrain sighs, and it nearly comes out as a hiss.

“Prefect,” the Kai says, “am I to believe that in spite of all these accomplishments, and in spite of the fact that you have no one in particular you’re considering to replace her, you plan to dismiss Tora Naprem from her post?”

Skrain jabs his tongue into his cheek, watching the woman from across his desk. Exhales through his nose, feeling enormously put-upon by all this, and carefully folds his hands in front of him.

“Your Eminence,” he says, in as patient a tone as he can muster. “I do appreciate your concern. But as I’ve said: this is a private matter that you needn’t concern yourself with. Instead,” and he gestures with a gracious sweep of his arm, “if I could redirect your attention to the reason we’re both here.”

“Gul Dukat,” the Kai says back, serene, hands folded in her lap, “no matter how lowly you think of me, I think you’ll find I already have.”

Skrain freezes. All at once, his internal cogs seize up, stuttering to a stop. He blinks a little, turning his head to favor one of his ears, wondering if he’s misheard. He swallows, a wary hand moving to the communicator on his gauntlet, wondering if it’s malfunctioning.

“Kai Opaka,” he says, slowly, “I assure you, I hold you in very high regard.”

“Ah,” she says. “Then you  _ don’t _ consider me a doddering old fool to be done away with, should I fail to suitably manipulate my people to your ends?”

Skrain flexes his fingers, feeling the tendons in his wrist move as he does. 

It can’t be a coincidence - the words are too precise, her gaze too direct. But  _ how _ , when he’d sent her away? She should have long been out of earshot. Then, all at once, he catches sight of the ridges on her nose, and he’s reminded -  _ that damn Bajoran hearing! _

He closes his mouth - it’s been hovering, half-open - and swallows again. Then, he forces a cool, congenial smile.

“I apologize for anything you may have overheard,” he says, very careful indeed. “I assure you, you’re mistaken in my opinion of you. It is, at times, necessary that I express certain sentiments in the interest of maintaining decorum which I, personally, do not hold to be true.”

The Kai watches him intently. “I’m afraid I don’t find that reassuring,” she says.

Skrain stares at her, smile frozen on his face. He scoffs, almost chuckling - unbelievable. Truly unbelievable. They’re all the same: gallingly impudent, completely ignorant of their own circumstances. 

“Your Eminence,” he says, finally allowing his disgust to seep into his tone, like poisoned sediment leaching into groundwater. “I don’t challenge your authority among your own people - but surely you must agree that this whole  _ charade _ is…  _ antiquated _ , at best. The culture you stand to represent is… functionally irrelevant. I believe I’ve been tremendously cordial. But it is essential, in my position, to be realistic. Your opinion has had no bearing on my inheritance of this Prefecture; in fact, it’s had no bearing on Cardassian policy in this sector for going on three decades. All this is… merely a  _ courtesy. _ ”

The Kai watches him deliver this speech with solemnity. It grates on him that not once, throughout this dressing down, does she appear at all disturbed or rankled. Finally, she nods slowly, never taking her eyes from his.

“Gul Dukat,” she says. “Forgive me for my frankness: as I think you know, I have met every man who has sat in this office. I have known this station and this planet under the command of many Guls. And I have been tasked with delivering my appraisal of all of them to my people.”

She turns her hands in her lap, cradling one inside the other, her open palm turned towards Skrain.

“I am aware of the profound effect my opinion has upon my people. And so, in the hope of maintaining peace, I have put my faith in the men of this office, for better or for worse, knowing that if I did, my people would do the same. But with each new administration, it’s impressed upon me that this Occupation, for all my effort, cannot be rendered peaceable. And with that in mind, I fear my responsibility has changed.”

Skrain sits up, ridges darkening with suspicion. “What are you saying?”

“Since the beginning of this Occupation,” the Kai says, neither cowed nor intimidated, “I have been forced no less than thrice to declare my approval of cruel and thoughtless men. With that blessing, they have caused undue suffering to my people, until meeting their own abrupt ends. It’s clear to me that if I express my unwillingness to support a Prefect, my people will draw their own conclusions regardless of if I do so. And so I’ve been forced to wonder what might happen if I refused altogether.”

Skrain sneers, showing his teeth. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid I am,” says the Kai. “Given cause, I will publicly denounce you.”

Skrain leans back into his chair, settling into his discomfort. He should’ve known she’d be trouble - aren’t they all? One simple job, and she can’t even do it without making a fuss. He sighs, flexing his fingers.

“I must say, I’m surprised at you, Opaka. I was under the impression you had transcended the overly precious attitudes of your people. To be willing to throw away all the good you’ve done over a simple misunderstanding…”

The Kai puts up her hand to stop him. “It’s true that I’ve far outgrown any tenderness to insults made unto  _ my _ person. But whether or not you understood Miss Tora’s choice, I struggle to think highly of a man who could be so cruel to someone so kind.” 

She lowers her hand, but doesn’t change her tone. “My position is this: you will restore Miss Tora to her position, or I will not give you my public support.”

Skrain feels the weight of his anger push against the bridge of his nose. His whole face sinks into an undisguised expression of utter loathing that he ought to contain - but really, it’s their own fault, they bring it on themselves. His claws extend again, biting into his knuckles where his fingers are knit together, the tip of his tail lashing with relentless energy.

The Kai still has yet to break his gaze.

He sighs again, letting the upwelling of contempt wash over him. “It’s clear you’re tired from your journey,” he says. He jabs a button on his desk, and the door slides open as Glinn Micas scuttles in obediently. Skrain gestures to him without looking. “My men will show you to your quarters. I’ll summon you for dinner later this evening and we can… reexamine what you’ve said here today.”

Instead of looking offended, the Kai bows her head and stands from her chair. She follows Micas out of the room without another word, crossing the threshold without so much as a look back over her shoulder. Skrain watches the security procession reform around her, Lukin catching his eye as they head back into the lift. 

After the doors shut, Skrain slowly swings around in his chair, the day quickly ripening from spoiled to rotten in the pit of his stomach. He holds out his right hand, turning it over, staring at the center of his palm, then curling his fingers in, crushing it shut again. The boil in the back of his brain is unceasing.

* * *

 

Naprem sits alone in the dark on the floor of the docking ring for much longer than she’d care to admit.

She sits very still, like if she moves - if she breathes too loudly - the shouting will start all over again. Her mind is swimming in the dark, sluggish and dizzy. Dukat’s words are working through her like a poison, a lethal, unslaking fever. 

It isn’t that she doesn’t  _ want _ to cry. In fact, she thinks she’d prefer that - she can feel it in her throat and in her chest, a yawning, hungry weight that won’t let her up. She can feel it in her lungs and in her ears, the roar of an ocean she herself could fill. But the tears don’t come. They sit just behind her eyes, stubborn as a sneeze, as paralyzed and heavy as her legs beneath her. 

She can’t stand. She can’t cry. She has no idea where she is, and she’s alone.

She stares down at her d’ja pagh, shrouded in the shadow of her palm as she traces her fingers slowly over the shape of it. She runs the tip of her forefinger in slow circles over the disc that once bore her family crest: a camellia blossom, the pale petals sewn in the metal, overlapping in an endless spiral, surrounded by wild vines that resembled pairs of beating wings.  _ Our family has wild blood, _ her mother would tell her.  _ My mother had it, and now so do you.  _

Now, barely a whisper of it remains where she circles the pad of her finger. The integrity of the image is something preserved in Naprem’s memory, alone.

It’s a long time before she can summon the strength to stand. As soon as she does, she feels even sicker. Her stomach burns and twists and chews itself inside her, and just for a second, she’s frightened that something is really wrong with her. Maybe she’s dying - it feels like she’s dying. Her head rocks with vertigo. Her heart beats out of turn, sliding drunkenly from one side of her chest to the other. Her stomach is so heavy she struggles to stand. 

She staggers over to where she dropped her PADD, and then back to the hallway toward the lift.

Once she finally gets a little momentum, she walks almost in a fugue - unseeing, unthinking. Soldiers still line the hall, and surely they turn to stare at her, but to her, they’re nothing but wallpaper. She doesn’t see them. She passes them slowly, staring blindly ahead, taking in nothing. Her hands are cold.

She walks and walks, and only after a few minutes does she realize she has no idea where she’s headed. For the life in her, she can’t remember what route they took. Where is the lift? She walks and walks, waiting for something to look familiar, but nothing does. Her heart begins to hammer again, beating out of rhythm, out of tune. She’s getting dizzy, body numb, conscious of nothing but her own increasingly delirious fear that she’s lost - where is the lift? Where is the lift? Down this hall? She’s gone too far - or has she not gone far enough? She turns down what she thinks is the right corridor, but she can’t tell - is it the right corridor, or do they all just look the same? She’s dizzy. She hurts. Her d’ja pagh is biting into her palm. She needs to sit down. She wants to sit down. She can’t breathe.

She stops at last, feeling hopelessly lost, caught in the only pool of light she can see, and just when she’s about to give up altogether, she hears a hiss from behind her and almost jumps out of her skin. She turns, heart thundering, expecting the worst - but it’s only the lift doors. She’s stumbled upon it by complete accident.

Cautiously, she steps aboard, and promptly realizes that she has no idea where she’s going. She stares blankly at the closed doors. 

“ _ Please state your destination, _ ” the station VI says.

Naprem hears the words but can’t understand them. She knows, in some distant, logical space of her brain, that she knows them, but they come in as jumbled up and garbled nonsense. She looks up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what’s happening. She feels entirely outside of her own body. What is she doing? Where is she? Where is she going?

“ _ Please state your destination, _ ” the VI says again and this time, blessedly, she understands the words. But she still doesn’t know the answer.

“Promenade,” she whispers.

The lift begins to move and her heart jolts, startled once more from its roost. She breathes shallowly, unevenly.

What is she doing?

She’s certainly fired now. If it was ambiguous before, it certainly isn’t this time. In her dissociative state, this information comes in like the VI’s words: familiar but incomprehensible, fractured and incomplete. Her mind refuses to process it, apparently on principle alone. She tries thinking it again: fired. Fired, fired, fired. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, she is nothing, she is no one, all her life, all her life is nothing, all her planet is nothing. All she is is a whispered impression in metal, so worn down she’s lost all meaning. She turns her d’ja pagh over in her hand, blindly fondling the familiar curves of the metal. Her ear is achingly bare.

She’s fired. No longer the Prefect’s aide. Well, she thinks dumbly, that’s just fine. She never wanted to be his aide in the first place. She’d thought from the beginning it was beneath her, but now, alarmingly, she’s beginning to realize that  _ she _ was beneath  _ it _ . And perhaps that’s just as well. She wants nothing but to sit very still in a very dark and quiet place until all of her goes silent. But, alarmingly, her feet keep walking off with her, and her mind has no choice but to trail along behind, like a train car refusing to decouple.

The lift stops. The door opens. Naprem steps out. The promenade should look familiar, but it’s as unrecognizable as the halls of the docking ring, empty as a ghost town. 

Perhaps, she thinks, she really is dead - maybe she’s a ghost. She walks, very slowly, one foot set gingerly ahead of the other, like she’s walking on paper thin ice or quicksand, expecting at any moment that the floor may give beneath her and she may go falling into the abyss. She looks at the stores - lit, but shuttered, stark and empty. 

She moves towards Quark’s, the only source of noise on the entire concourse, and through the doors, she stares at the people inside as though they’re players on the canvas of a living painting. She presses her hand to the door, knocks once - but no one hears her, and no one looks her way. She stares in at them - at the soldiers laughing and drinking, at the dabo girls laughing back - but it seems no more real to her than someone else’s dream.

She steps back slowly, trying to come back into herself. She follows her feet, brow creased, stomach sick, heart drunk with fear and aching. 

What is she doing? Where is she supposed to go?

Fired - she’s fired, she can’t go back to Ops.  _ Ops… _ Dukat’s face appears in her mind again, and her whole body shudders with dread and revulsion. All at once, it’s like he’s there again, standing over her, and it fills her with such fear that she almost breaks into a sprint to outrun the thought of him. No, she’s not going back there. There’s no reason to, no point but self immolation, and she’s becoming pretty sure, at this point, that she’s already done that. 

Records?  _ Prophets, _ she doesn’t want to go back to Records. She’ll probably be fired from that too, by this time tomorrow - she’ll be back working in ore processing, palms peeling on the handles of minecarts, back breaking under the weight of the uridium, brain boiling in the constant heat. She doesn’t want to be in Records, signing off on her own reassignment paperwork.

And so, once more, she returns to herself, standing in the middle of the promenade with nowhere to be, and no one expecting her. 

Finally, after a very long second of silence, she turns her body towards the Section 35 sleeping quarters, and lets her feet take her to the one and only place she currently wants to be: her bunk. 

She walks slowly, expecting to be stopped by the guards. They glance her way, suspicious, but no one says a thing to her. As soon as she walks through the open archway leading into the long room of bunks, the soft sounds of the sleeping night shift settle in her chest, making her limbs heavier, summoning the tears that have yet to mark her. She  _ is _ real, then. She walks past rows and rows of sleeping bodies, gingerly stepping over the scattered bouquets of legs and feet that stick out into the walkway. She finds her own bunk in the day shift section and carefully lays herself down, as though there’s something fragile inside her that she’s trying not to break. Her PADD jabs uncomfortably into her ribs, but she doesn’t let go of it - she’s forgotten to put it away, but now she’s too afraid to get up again, afraid of testing her luck with the guards, of disturbing the tenuous peace in her chest. A ripple of anguish disturbs it nonetheless, pulsing through her. She clutches the PADD to her, d’ja pagh clenched in her fist, and stares at the wall, far at the other side of the room.

What is she doing?

She has no answers. She has nothing. She doesn’t even know what she’s supposed to be doing  _ now. _ Instead of relaxing, all the bunk allows her to do is to truly panic, at long last. All her life has drifted like sand through her fingers, and here she is, clutching all that remains tightly in her fists. 

If she hears any disturbance near the doorway, her brain interprets it as unreal nonsense in the same way it’s been interpreting everything else. If she hears a guard bark an order, only to be hurriedly shushed, she pays it no mind - if she hears quiet, careful steps along the walkway, coming steadily closer, it means nothing to her. Even when she feels someone at her back, she doesn’t sit up, doesn’t look.

It’s only as a soft, steady weight settles behind her on the cot that she comes back into her body, heart hitching with dread, ready to understand anything so long as it’s fear.

“Hey,” a voice says, softly. Naprem smells honey and perfume, feels a hand on her shoulder. “ _ Cheli _ . Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Naprem starts at B’hava’el’s touch and rolls over faster than she ought to. B’hava’el jerks back with surprise. 

“Hey,” she whispers, “hey--” She puts her hands on Naprem’s shoulders and holds her still. “What’s going on?”

Naprem stares up at her, trying to understand if she’s real or simply a figment of her imagination. B’hava’el knits her brow, reaching in to brush back Naprem’s bangs.

“Kaya saw you on the promenade - said you looked… I dunno. Bad.” She swallows thickly. “I can see what she meant.”

There’s something about her - the way her golden hair falls around her face, or the almost-fear in her expression, like there’s something she sees in Naprem’s eyes that frightens her. Naprem feels something come loose in her chest. 

“I met the Kai,” she says, barely working the words out of her throat before the tears finally push their way out like pebbles, and all at once she’s consumed by the terrifying breadth of everything she doesn’t know, and B’hava’el doesn’t have to coax her into her arms. Naprem burrows there, and B’hava’el tucks her obligingly to her chest, making soft, soothing noises and stroking her hair. 

“Oh man,” B’hava’el whispers. “I hope this isn’t all because she’s...hideously ugly, or something.”

Laughter jerks its way out of Naprem’s mouth like a sound she stole from someone else. She collapses all at once into disconsolate weeping, drowning ever deeper every time she remembers.

“No,” she gasps. “No, she was beautiful.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” B’hava’el says, not sounding particularly relieved, and she cradles Naprem to her even as Naprem goes about falling further and further apart.


	2. Let He Who Is Without Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Dukat's outburst, he and Naprem struggle to find a way forward. The Kai encourages them to make peace - for their own good, as well as Bajor's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *walks in, whistling innocently* *drops this on your doorstep* *walks away, still whistling*

It happens the same way it always does: at the beginning, Dukat is full of anger; he’s a fresh-tapped spring of ire and contempt, bubbling and boiling with it. It rattles and bakes in him, jetting forth every few seconds in a blast of unctuous steam.

But then an hour passes, and it flows less freely - another hour passes and it slows - and then another hour passes and he’s left with only a trickle, a sluggish leak that’s quickly icing over. He starts angry, and by mid-afternoon he’s just… _tired._

He retires early to his quarters. The reasons not to are abundant - he _does_ run an entire planet, after all - but when he announces it, Damar simply nods and says, “Yes, sir.” This does nothing to belay Dukat’s suspicion that he’s doing more harm than good by brooding in his office, and he heads back to his apartment with an uncomfortable self-consciousness hanging over his head. Every soldier he passes jumps to attention, and their obvious nervousness around him - ingratiating only hours ago - is nothing short of exhausting.

By the time he reaches his quarters, he has a headache. He lets himself in, casts off his armor, and pours himself a glass of kanar. He leans back in his chair, and inhales slowly through his nose, ignoring the steadfast push at his temples.

_That damn nuisance Tora Naprem._

He can't get her off his mind. Now that his logic has taken hold again, he knows he can't refuse the Kai’s request. Oh, she doesn't need to know that - he'll play at it, test her resolve at least. But if keeping Tora Naprem as his aide is her sole condition for agreeing to support him, it would be absurd to refuse her. The ultimatum is sloppy. She wants him to keep Tora as his aide? Fine. That's easily done. After all, she's technically been his aide all along these past few weeks and they've hardly spoken. He'll simply go on having her in the position and not using her. It’s hardly ideal - it makes it almost pointless to bother having a representative at all. But if that's all it takes to mollify the Kai, it would be idiotic to refuse. If he'd been in his right mind, he would have agreed to it on the spot. As it is, he’ll now have to carefully navigate agreeing to her request; he'll have to strike a balance between agreeing to her terms and continuing to act as though he finds them unreasonable, so that she won't get wise and ask more of him.

He takes another deep swig of kanar before it hits him that he's planning to host her for dinner in - he checks the time - two hours. He makes a disgusted noise and shoves the drink away.

Just then, his wristbound communicator chimes and lights up. He exhales through his teeth and answers: “This is Dukat.”

“ _Gul Dukat_ ,” Damar says. “ _We have an incoming call for you from Legate Kell._ ”

Skrain is instantly relieved he didn't drink more - it would make the whiplash of his sudden sobriety much more extreme.

“Patch him through,” he says, moving to his personal terminal.

Kell's image appears almost before he's sat down.

“ _Dukat_ ,” he says. “ _I see it was too much to hope you'd be in your office where you belong._ ”

Skrain smiles, though it takes far too much effort. For all his bellyaching up until now, he would gladly entertain the Kai every day for a year if it would save him this one excruciating conversation.

“I see it was too much to hope you’d be able to resist the urge to stick your nose where it doesn't belong,” he replies, blithely.

“ _Watch your tone_ ,” Kell snarls. He's hardly a young man - he was well into middle age when he and Skrain met, and it's been decades since then. Now, his voice has taken on the slight rasp of burgeoning senility, and it makes Skrain wish, vainly, for the day when he’ll shrivel up into dust. “ _I shouldn't have to check up on you to make sure you're manning the post you were assigned._ ”

“I'll be having the Kai to dinner,” Skrain says, baring his teeth like a surly teenager.

“ _Observing protocol hardly demands taking time off to make yourself decent,_ ” Kell says. “ _Though, perhaps it does. For you._ ”

Skrain seethes, but this time, the anger comes on cold and practiced - not something new or overwhelming. Something constant. Quiet. Boring. He chuckles lowly.

“I suppose you've called to socialize,” Skrain says.

“ _Not remotely._ ”

“Oh?” Skrain takes a bold sip of his kanar in full view of the video feed. “I assumed from the trotting out of insults you intended this to be a call of a… personal nature.”

Kell makes a disgusted face at him from across the extranet. “ _Crass, as usual. No, Dukat - I’ve received a disturbing call from Gul Lumer._ ”

Skrain isn’t able to hide his furious scowl. He looks away deliberately.

“I’m impressed you have time for gossip,” he says, with another sip of his kanar. Somehow, it tastes more bitter this time than it did only a few seconds ago. He sets it aside, shifting in his seat to fan his neckridges out a little in a subtle dominance display. “I was under the impression you were a very busy man.”

“ _Not when you’re clearly in need of babysitting_ ,” Kell says. “ _I made my opinion on your Bajoran servant perfectly clear._ ”

Even knowing better, Skrain can’t help but cock his head to the side and fake ignorance. “Servant?” he repeats. “I’m afraid I don’t have a Bajoran servant. ...an _aide_? Yes.” He cocks his head the other way. “Is that what you meant? I realize you’re a man with a limited capacity for nuance...”

“ _And_ **_you_ ** _are a man incapable of rising to the dignity of your station_ ,” Kell snaps. “ _Lumer says you allowed the little vermin to attend your meeting with the Kai._ ”

Skrain’s scales heat with hatred and anger. He digs his claws into the arms of his seat, rather than reach out in a vain attempt to strangle him.

“As I recall,” he says, stiffly, “it was your position that whatever use I made of the Bajoran was my own business.”

“ _That was a closed meeting, demanding Level 8 security clearance. The Bajoran does not have that clearance._ ”

Skrain sits up, puffing out his chest in spite of the distaste fermenting in his gut. “Yes, she does. I granted it.”

“ _I revoke it_ ,” Kell says. “ _Effective immediately._ ”

“You have no right,” Skrain snaps, and even through the steel of his lingering resentment towards her, for a moment he feels almost… **protective** of Tora. “This is my station.”

“ _Terok Nor is your station only so long as I allow it_ ,” Kell snarls. “ _Going by Gul Lumer’s account, it’s clear you have no control over her actions - meaning you’ve deliberately allowed a highly volatile security risk within striking distance of one of our most valuable assets in the Bajoran sector._ ”

“Tora has no documented history of violence,” Skrain says, voice scraping along the gravel of his ire.

“ _Bah_ ,” Kell scoffs. “ _As if that means anything. You will dismiss her - immediately, with prejudice._ ”

Skrain could tell him why he can’t possibly do that, in light of the Kai’s demands. He could prostrate himself before him and beg ignorance. He could make his voice soft and smooth - he could ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir.’ He could calmly explain the reality of the circumstances.

But it wouldn’t make a damn lick of difference. Skrain Dukat was raised by a man like Kell - men who don’t care about the truth so much as they care about being right. Men like Kell only care about being the most powerful person in a room.

And so he only says:

“No.”

Kell’s eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare - but it’s the answer he expected, and they both know it.

“ _Then you’ll answer to the Detapa Council_ ,” he says. And then, without another word, he ends the call.

Skrain sits very still, staring at his reflection in the screen, overlaid by the cool green tones of the symbol of the Union. After a second of stillness, he raises his glass to his mouth again, and begins, involuntarily, to think of his father.

* * *

 

Naprem stares out of the viewport in B’hava’el’s simple two-room apartment, one of her fine-knit, silky blankets draped loosely around her shoulders. Across the room she hears a chirp from the kitchenette, and soon after B’hava’el joins her again, bearing a steaming cup of lavender tea.

Naprem can barely look at her - somehow, even kindness stings. Her heart is still too tender to bear anyone's attention.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and takes it in both hands.

“Yeah,” B’hava’el says, and for a moment, they lapse into silence again, standing side by side, staring out of the viewport. Far beneath them, Bajor turns slowly on its axis, just out of reach of Terok Nor’s clawed fingers. Her skies are a restless mosaic of blue and violet as dark plumes of clouds swirl unbounded across the oceans, golden filaments of lightning lancing through them.

Naprem feels, watching them, like she can almost see the brushstrokes of the Prophets’ artistry - she can almost smell the oil paints on canvas, can almost hear someone humming forgotten arpeggios in a soft voice as they sew color into the air and along the shape of the clouds. Naprem remembers what it’s like to see that storm from beneath. She remembers what it feels like to catch that wet air in the back of her mouth and hold it there. And yet, while it’s been less than a year since she was last planetside, the memory feels a thin as film. How long has it been since she was last in East Province, where the loamy dirt is as near to her as her own blood, and the bounteous tropical flowers are as near to her as sisters, and the air tastes sweet and warm even in the shadow of a thunderhead?

She swallows, chews her lip, and begins, involuntarily, to think of her mother.

B’hava’el reaches over and knocks her knuckle against Naprem’s cup.

“You gonna drink that?”

Naprem nods, embarrassed, and brings it to her lips. It's still too hot, but she refuses to wince.

“It's early in the year for a monsoon,” she says, ignoring the blistering sting of the hot tea.

B’hava’el nods, nursing her own.

After a time, Naprem says: “You're from Hendrikspool, aren't you?”

“...yeah,” B’hava’el says, but Naprem can tell from her voice that it matters very little to her, and it only intensifies the pain of her own vain longing. “It's on the other side of the planet right now,” B’hava’el says, and nods to the viewport. “Monsoon season’s never too bad there. Guess it's not too bad here either.”

Naprem hums, but she fights the churning in her blood. Terok Nor’s lack of weather has never been more offensive to her than it is now; the calamitous storm in her chest longs for company.

She takes another sip of her too-hot tea to ground herself, and tries to turn her thoughts outward.

“You should be asleep,” she says.

B’hava’el scoffs and reaches for her wrist - Naprem lets her draw her down into the cushioned seat that frames the viewport. “And miss this?” B’hava’el asks. “Not likely. I love seeing you mopey in real time.”

Naprem frowns at her. B’hava’el manages to avoid seeing it as she sets her tea down, and puts her hand out. Naprem swallows, and wordlessly turns over her _d’ja pagh_. B’hava’el takes it from her and brushes her hair back behind her ear, gently affixing it in place.

“You were up all night,” Naprem tries to argue.

“I'm always up all night.”

“Have you slept at all?”

“Well, I was going to, but then _somebody_ had a meltdown on the promenade-- Don't move your head.” B’hava’el catches Naprem by the chin and forces her to face front. She pinches the cuff into place along the edge of Naprem’s ear. “There,” she says, oddly gentle. And then: “ _Cheli,_ when was the last time you cleaned this?”

Naprem flushes with shame, turning her head again. “How would I have?”

B’hava’el sighs and doesn't argue. “Drink your tea,” she says instead. She stands up and heads to the kitchenette again. Naprem sees her open a compartment near the replicator and pull out a small wooden box, from which she withdraws a paper packet the size of her hand. She returns the box to the compartment, seals it, and rips the paper packet open to upend its contents onto a plate. When she returns, Naprem almost gasps at the small treasure - a cluster of genuine tea crackers, clearly baked, not replicated, shiny with honey and sprinkled with bitter _chekami_ seeds. B’hava’el sets them in front of her and Naprem can't help but gape.

“Where did you get these?” she asks.

B’hava’el grins. “Client brought ‘em from a tour planetside. He's sweet on one of the shopgirls at the bakery that makes these - and he's allergic to _chekami_.”

Naprem's awe morphs into something more dour. She closes her mouth and tries to smile back. “...I didn't realize there were any Bajoran-run shops still in operation.”

“I didn't think anybody could be allergic to _chekami_.”

Naprem tilts her head to acknowledge her point, and takes a cracker when B’hava’el nudges the plate in her direction. They taste as good as they look - crispy and perfect, the honeyed, oily flavor sticking to her tongue and complimenting the tea. They lapse again into a silence that's as comfortable as it possibly could be.

“...so,” B’hava’el says at last. “What's next?”

Naprem swallows a little more thickly.

“...well, I'm definitely fired,” she says. “No question about that.”

B’hava’el nods a little - clearly, the intricacies of Cardassian communication aren't so opaque that there's any question about it this time. Still, it doesn't look like she thinks it was Naprem's fault, which comes as a relief.

“He'll probably transfer me,” Naprem says. “That's what I’d do.”

“No, it isn't,” B’hava’el says.

Naprem bites into another cracker and swallows the compliment. “Well… it's the smart thing to do. From a Cardassian perspective. At the very least, he'll have me moved back into ore processing. He won't want to have to interact with me any time in the future.” She bites her lip, chest aching with bitterness. “I'll be lucky if he doesn't throw me in a holding cell.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to see him try.” B’hava’el steals a cracker for herself and snaps it between her fingers. She taps her foot against the floor, clearly uneasy. “You gonna go back to ore processing?” she asks.

Naprem shrugs helplessly. “If those are his orders…”

“If those are his orders, he'll probably be sending you to your death,” B’hava’el says. “You really okay with that?”

No. Of course she isn't. Even the thought of returning to the mines - to the heat and the wordless, endless suffering - is unbearable.

“I don't see what choice I have,” she says, which is painfully, abhorrently true.

B’hava’el gives her a serious look, drawing her brows in.

“You could do my job,” she says.

Naprem feels a bolt of terror streak up her spine.

“I could get you set up,” B’hava’el continues. “You could stay with me until you could afford your own place - I could get you started with your first few clients. You could set your own hours. You’d be making your own money.” She shrugs back at her. “It’s a hell of a lot better than mining uridium.”

Naprem's hands go cold and her head goes numb. Her breath is coming short and shallow and she's getting dizzy again; she feels ill, and she must look it, too.

“I can't,” she says, almost drunk with her own panic. “I can't, no, I… I can't do that.”

Naprem sees that same hurt look flash across B’hava’el’s face - the same one from Quark's, when she suggested enticing Dukat’s interest more directly. She's good at hiding it - Naprem sees her tuck a facade of disinterest around it in record time - but the air stinks of betrayal.

“Yeah,” she says. Naprem can hear the accusation in her voice. “Yeah, nevermind, I get it.”

“I--”

“No,” B’hava’el interrupts. “Look - you don't have to explain it to me. I know you don't like what I do.”

“I don't care about what you do,” Naprem says, and it comes out pleading.

“Tora,” B’hava’el snaps. “Just say I disgust you and get it over with - I'm tired of going around and around on this.”

“No!” Naprem gasps, and before B’hava’el can move out of reach, she grabs her hand. “B'hava, _please_ . It's not… you don't… _disgust me._ ” She barely gets the word out before the tears leap to her eyes again, and she can barely blink them back - they go spilling down her cheeks before she can get another word out.

“ _Cheli_ …” B’hava’el sighs and tries to move to comfort her, but Naprem squeezes her hand and refuses to let go.

“Please,” she says, fumbling and clumsy. “I'm not reacting to what you do, I'm… I never am. I'm sorry, I keep trying to tell you that, it just never-- I don't-- It's just a job, I know that, and you're being enormously kind to me, I-- I'm not a _prude_ , I'm... I just don't think I'm equipped to do… what you do. Ever. With anyone.”

B’hava’el narrows her eyes slowly, but stops trying to pull her hand away. Naprem blinks and more tears go tumbling down her cheeks.

“I don't mean to react the way I do, I just… I know you're right,” she sniffs. “I know I could make my own money and live on my own, but… when I start thinking about being with anyone that way I just feel so…” Repulsed. Unnatural. “... _scared_. I've never… I don't think I can. I don't think I can make myself.”

“Being with anyone _what_ way?” B’hava’el asks, peering at her.

“In any way - sexually. Ever.” She hangs her head, wishing she could make sense. “I'm sorry, I know you're trying to help me, I-- It isn't about you. It's about the nature of the job, I… I don't think I'm compatible with it.”

“You know what people pay for stuff like this, right?”

“It's not about the money. ...honestly, half the time I'm so angry at myself, it has to be one of the best possible ways to live freely and be financially independent these days and I… every time I even try to imagine it…” Another wave of tears rolls down her face. “I can't. I just can't. I've never-- I can't.”

B’hava’el watches her for a while. Naprem wishes she could tell what she's thinking, but she's too busy trying to stop imagining herself with anyone so that the pulsing, unrelenting horror will subside. She just wants permission to close the monster back up in its box, but she can't bear the idea of B’hava’el interpreting Naprem’s own personal defect as some sort of moral judgement of her lifestyle.

Finally, B’hava’el’s shoulders relax. She sighs.

“Okay,” she says. And then, like she's too curious to resist: “...you’ve really never been with anybody?”

Naprem swallows, sniffs, and shakes her head.

“Weren't you _engaged_ once?”

“Not for very long.”

“Yeah, can't say I blame him. Kidding,” she says, as Naprem gives her a wounded look, “I’m kidding-- _Cheli._ It's a joke.” She sighs, taking Naprem’s hand in hers. “Well, that's out then. ...how bad is it? Like, could you work for Quark? He's always hiring dabo girls.”

Naprem shakes her head, not nearly dry-eyed enough for this. “Isn't Quark always going on about how the girls are contractually obligated to let him ‘sample the goods’?”

B’hava’el shrugs. “Tell him you can't read.”

“I work in Records,” Naprem says. “I don't think he's going to buy it.”

“He's a foot shorter than you, and the last time I touched his ears I think he came in his pants. Just say no. Quark’s a slug for sure, but all it takes to scare him straight is a little salt.”

Naprem shakes her head. “I'm done working with egotists.”

B’hava’el nods, but with a face that says what they're both thinking: egotists are in high supply around here. It's more a matter of choosing between them than choosing to avoid them altogether.

There's a knock at the door.

They both sit bolt upright.

“Are you…” Naprem turns to her. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“No,” B’hava’el says, and her face is frighteningly grim. She stands up, putting her tea aside.

“Hide,” she tells Naprem, and she quickly sweeps all the crackers to the side of the plate nearest herself. She rearranges the pillows on the viewseat with a flick of her wrist and pushes Naprem back towards the hallway with her tea in hand. “Go, get out of sight. You're not here, got it? You were never here.”

Naprem stumbles back, pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders against the imminent chill of unease, and B’hava’el pushes her out of sight, down the hallway, then turns and rushes around, sweeping all evidence of her under the table. There are only two rooms, and Naprem finds herself frozen, paralyzed by indecision - she doesn’t want to leave B’hava’el alone, it’s cowardly, and if something were to happen she’d never forgive herself. A knock at the door could be the worst possible thing - violation, execution, prison... But her dread is a ticking clock, her heart as thin and fragile as paper candy. She can’t take any more hardship today. She can’t bear it. She bites her lip and huddles in the small alcove near B’hava’el’s bedroom door, where she’s hidden from sight, but where she can still hear her, where she can try to intuit what’s happening from the soft shadows on the wall.

She hears the door slide open, and tries desperately to swallow her fear.

“Hello?” she hears B’hava’el say. “Can I help you?”

Naprem is expecting a cool, cutting, Cardassian reply. She's expecting Gul Dukat's silky baritone, or worse, someone else - a lackey, Lukin or Damar, come to drag her off to who knows where. Wherever they keep Bajorans Dukat has tired of before their inevitable executions. But instead, the visitor’s voice is soft, and calm; familiar. Bajoran.

“Good evening,” says Kai Opaka. “I hope I'm not disturbing you. I wonder - is Tora Naprem here with you?”

Naprem’s heart hiccups and stutters in her chest. But B’hava’el doesn't hesitate for a second.

“Nope,” she says. “Not here. Sorry.”

Naprem gasps outright, appalled. She claps a hand over her mouth and presses her back to the door; disbelief pistons in her chest. She can’t-- To the _Kai_ of all people!

But Opaka only hums thoughtfully. Naprem can’t see her expression - she wishes desperately that she could. Her heart is pounding. What is she doing here, anyway? Surely she can’t have come to see _her_ . That’s preposterous. And how would she have known she was here, anyway? She can’t have come _looking_ for her.

“I apologize if I’m intruding,” Opaka says, and Naprem’s heart trips into her ribs again. “I assure you, I mean her no harm. I’d simply like to speak with her, if it’s possible.”

Naprem honestly expects B’hava’el to say outright that it isn’t - but she says nothing. Naprem hears her sigh through her nose - a short, annoyed little sound. From her diffused silhouette against the wall, Naprem can see her fold her arms and lean into one of her hips: unsure. Uneasy.

After a short silence, Opaka presses on, careful and calm. “I understand you’re protecting her. But I feel a great wrong has been done today - and I wish to do what I can to fix it. I can only hope you allow me that opportunity.”

B’hava’el takes a deep breath. Then, Naprem hears her take a step back, and she peers back into the hallway.

“Whad’you think?” she asks.

Naprem looks at her helplessly. If the Kai wants to see her, who is she to say no? She bites her lip, shrugs a little. B’hava’el raises her eyebrows expectantly in a _‘yes or no?’_ kind of way. Naprem shrugs a little harder, but finally nods. What else can she do? She isn’t B’hava’el. She can’t lie to the Kai, can’t deny her such a simple request.

B’hava’el takes that as her answer. “Come in and close the door,” she says.

From the shadows, Naprem hisses at her to be polite. But if Opaka objects she doesn’t say so - she comes in, and the door shuts behind her. Naprem hears her soft footsteps drawing nearer, and - with a casual terror pooling like lead in her shoes - she forces herself to step out of the alcove, fully aware of how ridiculous she looks with a blanket around her shoulders and her hands cupped, rigid and unmoving, around a rapidly cooling cup of tea.

Opaka stands in the center of the room and waits as Naprem gathers her courage and approaches. She hasn’t changed her clothes since she arrived, but she’s shed her attendants, who are nowhere to be seen. B’hava’el, dutiful as ever, stands between them, regarding her with a suspicion Naprem finds both blasphemous and admirable.

Naprem swallows, and bows her head, tremulous.

“Good evening, Your Eminence.”

“Lift your head, my child.”

Naprem looks up, surprised and fearful - but the Kai looks back at her with nothing but an all-encompassing softness. There is no anger in her face, no reproach. She looks at her evenly, as though Naprem’s done nothing to disappoint her.

 _She doesn’t know_ , Naprem thinks, and the twin daggers of dismay and self-loathing twist in her gut. She doesn’t know, and Naprem will have to be the one to tell her - what a spectacle she must be, dressed in her dingy, colorless prisoner’s garb, face sticky with dried tears, hands full of cold tea, bundled in a blanket like a child.

But before she can say anything, B’hava’el links her arm with Naprem’s underneath the blanket and leans into her.

“How’d you know she was here?” she asks.

“B’hava’el!”

“I want to know,” B’hava’el says, unconcerned with Naprem’s consternation.

Kai Opaka nods slowly, as though this is all very reasonable. “I asked one of my attendants to submit a… subtle inquiry to the local bartender.”

B’hava’el rolls her eyes a little. “Quark doesn’t do subtle,” she says under her breath.

Opaka nods again. “I fear there is little I can do on this station that will escape the notice of those who know that I am here.”

B’hava’el and Naprem share a look - she means Dukat.

“Your Eminence,” Naprem starts to say, but Opaka holds out her hand.

“Please,” she says. “May I sit with you?”

Naprem chokes on her tongue. She looks up at B’hava’el, wondering if by some magic she’ll know the right answer - but B’hava’el only frowns at her and jerks her chin to the viewseat, as though Naprem’s the one who’s been flagrantly disrespecting the Kai all this time. Naprem takes a breath, then nods, and lets go of B’hava’el to sit down, obediently.

Opaka sits down across from her, folding herself like paper into B’hava’el’s bounty of cushions, slow, clean, and precise. Once more, Naprem finds herself taken by her, helpless in the face of her beauty and force of presence. She glances down at the plate between them and makes a gesture towards it. The Kai shakes her head and puts up her hand.

“That's quite alright,” she says. “Thank you.” Then, she turns her attention to Naprem once again. She gestures to her ear. “May I?” she asks. Naprem nods a little, and holds still as she reaches forward; this time, her touch is disarmingly familiar, even as she pulls a little at her lobe. Naprem realizes after a second that she's examining her d’ja pagh.

“Beautiful,” she says, almost to herself. “Such ornate craftsmanship.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“You know,” Opaka says, slowly, “my predecessor, Kai Meressa, had few material possessions to her name. But one of the few she did have, she passed to me - a small painting of Kendra Valley. In my opinion, one of the best to ever have been rendered. Meressa and I were both born in Kendra, it was one of the few things we had in common. I believe that painting bears, in the lower right corner, this same family crest.”

Naprem feels B’hava’el looking at her, insatiably curious, ready as ever to peck at the bruise. She does her best to ignore it, ears buzzing. She nods, unable to reply immediately - unable to push the heavy words across her tongue.

“Your mother…?” Opaka supplies.

“Yes,” Naprem whispers. “Yes.”

Opaka nods slowly, trailing her fingers along the silver chain, down to the labradorite pendant. The added weight is unbalancing; immutable.

“I apologize,” she says, gently, “if my mentioning her brings you unhappiness.”

“Not at all,” Naprem says, though it has, and she doesn't know what point there is in lying. To be Bajoran is to suffer. They all know better than to bring up family. “Once upon a time, I was only ever known as her daughter. It's… a rare treat to be known that way again.” Even if only for a moment. She recalls: “...she fretted over that piece for months. I watched her paint it - I think she was convinced no one would ever like it. She would be honored to know you still have it.”

Opaka nods. “By my memory, she was a woman of great talent - but… withdrawn. Wasn't she? Traditional. Conservative in her carriage.”

“Yes,” Naprem agrees. Then, guilt choking her heart: “Very shy. Very…” She trails off. It’s hurts too much to talk about her now. “We were very different that way.”

“Different needn't mean _wrong_ , my child.”

Naprem looks up again to find Opaka watching her. She continues, tone calm. “I think there is great value to be found in diversity. Your disposition suits you, as your mother's suited her - and I think I've been quite lucky to meet you, considering.”

Opaka gently releases of her _d’ja pagh_ , and Naprem feels compelled to speak - to correct her before she can go on. “Your Eminence,” she says, desperately. “I… Something’s happened, I’ve been--”

But before she can finish, Opaka puts up her hand again.

“I’m aware.”

Naprem’s tongue stumbles to a stop. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean, I’m aware of what transpired. Gul Dukat has indicated to me that he intends to remove you from your post.”

Naprem blanches, then flushes - her blood a wash of cold, then hot in her cheeks. Well. There it is, then. She’s fired. She knew that, she tells herself - she’s known that since it happened. She’s fired. Fired, fired, fired.

When she says nothing - and what _can_ she say? What is there to possibly say? ‘ _I’m sorry, I’ve only just met you and I’ve already let you down’_? - the Kai continues, still calm, still collected.

“I’ve come here,” Opaka says, “to speak with you - and I’ve asked him to reconsider.”

“You _what?_ ” B’hava’el says.

“That isn’t necessary,” Naprem gasps, breath coming in uneven, jagged shapes.

“I don’t agree,” Opaka says. “Please understand - I fully intend to respect your wishes on the matter. But the charges brought against you were cruel, and unfair. And if it’s within my power to restore you to a position you are willing to maintain - one which holds great value to our people - then so be it.”

“So be it?” Naprem repeats. “So be it? You’re Kai - you can’t go… throwing your weight around for-- _nobody._ ”

“You,” the Kai says, “are not. _Nobody._ ”

Naprem feels a panicked anger gather its wings against her chest. “I assure you, Your Eminence, I am.”

“You are Tora Naprem,” Kai Opaka says, and the words seem to boom out of her even though she says them plainly, rolling thunder beneath a cloudless sky. “Daughter of Tora Cebahi. Some thirty years ago, you were a speaker at the Annexation Protests in Ashalla - a professor of heritage and culture, held in high regard by your peers. I have it on good authority that you once became so passionate in your defense of the rights of others that you smashed a tea cup at Kai Meressa’s feet. There are hundreds of thousands of Bajorans who have you to thank for the changes Gul Dukat has made. You have almost single-handedly restored my hope for our people. You could not possibly be _further_ from being nobody.”

Naprem feels her lip quiver. She sits very still, Opaka’s words weighing heavy in her fragile heart, held there as though in a fraying basket, straining at the braided straw of her.

“That’s in the past,” she says, almost in a whisper.

“My child,” Opaka says, “who you are is who you are. And we need someone like you. Someone who will speak up for our people. You have a very unique opportunity. I will make him understand your use. He _needs_ you. We all do.”

Naprem looks at her lap. She bites her lip, exhaling through her nose, and without her wanting it to, her protest paints the air.

“...what if I don’t want to?” she says.

Opaka looks at her, not seeming surprised, but quizzical all the same.

“What if I don’t want to work with him?” she asks.

“Do you not?” Opaka asks.

“No,” Naprem says, and even as she says it she feels more sure of it. She doesn’t want to work with him. Sure, she’s fired - she’s _fired_ , and he fired her, but why would she want that fixed? “I don’t. He doesn’t listen to me.” She twists her hands in her tunic. “He treats me cruelly; unfairly. I don’t wish to work for anyone who would treat me in such a way.”

“And if he were to amend his behavior? If he were to treat you with fairness and respect…”

“He can’t. And he won’t. And either way, it wouldn’t make a difference,” Naprem says, hands curling in the loose fabric of her pants. “I won’t work for him. He’s repugnant.”

Opaka watches her for a long while. Then, finally, she nods, slow and solemn.

“I understand,” she says. “It is, of course, your choice. I accept your judgement.”

Naprem feels her heart sink. Somehow, disappointing Opaka on purpose is much worse than having done it by accident. She looks down again, feeling heavy and ashamed.

“But,” Opaka says, “I ask that you do me one favor - I would like you to accompany me to dinner this evening.”

“Dinner?” B’hava’el asks.

“With Gul Dukat,” the Kai says. She stands. “It is traditional that I dine with him during my stay - I would ask that you come as my guest.”

Naprem stares at her, slack-jawed and disbelieving, blood buzzing, head crowded with a hundred conflicting thoughts. She can’t possibly - no! Absolutely not, she wouldn’t be caught dead in his quarters, very less for _dinner_ \- how could she possibly hope to survive such a thing? The very thought of being forced to look him in the face again makes her heart leap with terror, her stomach churning with anger and guilt.

But how can she refuse? The Kai - the _Kai!_ \- is asking her to be there. As her _guest._

“You can’t think you’re going to convince me with _dinner_ ,” she says.

“I don’t mean to convince you of anything,” the Kai says. “I’d simply like you to accompany me.”

“To what end?”

“I would like the opportunity to continue enjoying your company,” the Kai replies. “If I cannot convince you to act in service to the Bajoran people, then I hope I can simply entice you to enhance what is… to be quite honest, likely to be an unpleasant evening.”

Naprem swallows, feeling sick with guilt. She drops her gaze again, feeling truly overpowered by her own selfishness. The _Kai…_ The _Kai_ is asking her to accompany her to dinner and she’s going to… what? Refuse her? She can’t refuse. But she can’t go. She _can’t._ She can’t face Dukat again, not alone.

She spends too long in silence. Opaka’s standing there, waiting for her answer, and she has none.

B’hava’el looks at her, then turns to Opaka.

“She’ll be there,” she says, arms folded.

Naprem looks up with a start, but can’t argue. B’hava’el shifts her hips and her shoulders and smiles a tight, unfriendly smile.

“And so will I.”

The Kai nods, as though she expected as much.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll meet you both there at 1900 hours.”

And with that, she leaves Naprem alone with her dread, and her cowardice, and her profoundly stupid, short-sighted, wonderful best friend.

It takes a solid minute and a half for Naprem to free herself from her paralysis, and by the time she does, B’hava’el’s already pulling apart her closet.

“What are you doing?” Naprem asks. No, better question: “What were you _thinking?!_ ”

“I was _thinking_ ,” B’hava’el says, “that I wanted front row tickets to you telling Dukat to eat a bucket of insects. That’s what I was thinking.”

She throws a few more formless brocades onto her bed.

“Say when,” she tells her, with an unnerving amount of excitement.

* * *

 

After a half an hour of agonizing, Skrain decides against music altogether. It feels wrong not to have _anything_ as the backdrop for a dinner of all things, let alone with the Kai, but there’s nothing that suits the atmosphere. What sort of music do you play for a woman you have no desire to sleep with, and who also happens to hold your future in her palm? None at all appears to be the answer.

He’s lucky he only has the one dress uniform - left to his own devices and to the full of his wardrobe, he’d no doubt be scrambling for something suitable. He still fusses endlessly at the clasp of his cape and his rows of medals - he re-slicks his headfeathers, paces awhile, contemplates calling his wife just to hear her assurances that he looks fine.

He’s so deep in his own thoughts that it’s making him dizzy. In a way, he wishes he’d had more to drink - maybe that would’ve killed the sweeping chaos that fills him in the aftermath of rigorous anger. There’s little to do but sit and think. Perhaps he should’ve stayed in his office. Perhaps he should’ve drunk more kanar. His brain is an uncoordinated whirligig of thoughts.

He’ll have to do _something_ about Tora, that much is clear. But he’s outright told Kell he won’t fire her, so that can’t be it. No point walking it back gently now, he’ll need to forge ahead without giving the Kai time to argue or strategize. So much _trouble_ to go to for one woman - well, two, though this isn’t really about the Kai now so much as it is about defying Kell.

But he hasn’t the slightest idea how to go about it. He _has_ dismissed her, after all - no woman in her right mind would approach him after how he’d gone about it, either, and while Tora might not be in her right mind, she isn’t stupid. He’s already reversed his decision once; reversing it again, so soon after he’d outright said he wouldn’t, feels impossible.

In a strange way, the call from Damar is almost a relief. At least it gives him something to focus on.

“She did _what?_ ”

“ _Lukin says she somehow evaded his officers. He refuses to clarify how._ ”

Lukin isn't any more forthcoming when Skrain calls him, but he is significantly more abashed, and spitting mad to boot. It’s clear the oversight wasn't his.

“ _We have her_ **_now_ ** _,_ ” he says, as though it makes any difference.

“You’ll forgive me if I fail to find that comforting,” Skrain snaps, and he can almost hear Lukin flinch on the other end of the comm.

“ _She was with Lumer’s men when it happened_ ,” Lukin grouses.

“With Lumer’s men on _my station_ ,” Skrain hisses. “You get her now, and you bring her here - since it seems even simple babysitting duties are _beyond you._ You lose her again, at any time, and I shouldn't have to explain what will happen - do. I. Make. Myself. Clear.”

“ _Yes sir_ ,” Lukin says, and promptly terminates the call.

Skrain takes a deep breath and rests his head against his hand. Is it possible, he wonders, that everyone on his staff is wildly incompetent and he's only just noticing? Surely Damar can't be the only one of them capable of honoring his station. _Surely._

He wasn't planning to entertain for a few hours yet, but no matter - it will save him the time of agonizing over what to wear and what to say. He's done enough of that anyhow. He might as well resolve himself to the tedious, hideous farce of it all. When the door chimes, he’s ready for it - as ready as he’ll ever be.

“Enter,” he says, and the door slides open.

The Kai walks in, wearing the same infuriatingly calm air she was wearing this afternoon. She gives a small nod to her attendants, and they retreat to stand outside on either side of the doorway. She gives no indication that she’s aware that she’s in any trouble.

“Good evening, Gul Dukat,” she says.

She certainly knows how to put a man on edge.

“Is it?” Skrain asks, not able to hide his irritation. He pours another glass of kanar for himself at long last, not getting up from the table. “Forgive me for saying so, Your Eminence - but I believe our nights must be going very differently.”

“Oh?” the Kai asks.

“Security Chief Lukin informs me you lost your security detail a few hours ago,” Skrain says. “I don’t know how Gul Lumer permits you to behave - but while you’re here, you should know I take infractions of that kind _very_ seriously.”

“Of course,” the Kai says, as though this is all a very reasonable discussion they’re having. “I… anticipated you might take issue with my brief departure. But it was necessary.”

Skrain smiles at her, thinly - her nonchalance is completely unbelievable. He’s honestly beginning to wish he were less well dressed, less put together. It feels like all of him could be about to fray loose at any second. His composure is a thick braid of rope sawing against a knife.

“You don’t determine what’s necessary,” he says. “Our men are stationed with you for your safety and wellbeing, and it is _unacceptable_ for you to deny them their due diligence.”

“Of course,” the Kai says, and she draws nearer without his invitation. “I understand. May I?” She gestures to the empty seat across from him.

He stares at her, nursing his kanar. After a moment, he smiles wider, sickly sweet and all politics. Whatever her game is, he absolutely hates it. “Please,” he says. “By all means.”

The Kai tucks her hands together and sits down in a businesslike fashion. “Have you given any further consideration to my request?”

Skrain watches her from across the table, wondering if there’s any point in lying. Her calm doesn’t just annoy him - it renders most of his best social strategies moot. There’s no point in pouring energy into agitating an opponent who refuses to be bothered. Still, he makes a show of sighing through his nose and looking put upon.

“You’re making it very difficult for me to consider doing you any favors, Kai Opaka. You’re _wearing_ on my generous nature.”

“May I take that to mean you haven’t considered it?”

Skrain purses his lips. He sets down his kanar.

“I’m considering it,” he says, but he makes it clear from his tone that her little _adventure_ today hasn’t done her any favors. “Where _did_ you get off to, today? If you don’t mind my asking. I’m sure Security Chief Lukin will be calling me any moment now to tell me, one way or the other. But I’d like to hear it from you. As a gesture of good faith.”

“I went to ask someone to accompany me to dinner this evening,” she says.

Skrain raises both orbital ridges, unable to mask his surprise.

“You _what?_ ”

“I went to ask someone to accompany me to dinner,” she says again.

Skrain stares at her, utterly flabbergasted. His first thought is that she must be joking - but the serene look on her face betrays nothing, and by his understanding, Bajoran pranks aren’t nearly so involved. He can’t _believe_ her gall - sneaking away from her escorts, deliberately putting herself in danger for the opportunity to extend an unwelcome invitation to a stranger. Anger streaks through him again, less powerful this time - a fire without supplement to burn - and without meaning to, he snaps:

“ _Who?_ ”

Just then, the door chimes again. Skrain’s head whips around, teeth bared in an open snarl. He stands up from his chair, and barks at the door to open. The Kai stays seated, only turning her head with an expression of calm expectation.

The door slides open, and one of the guards on duty - Gil Kudek - leans in with a grim expression.

“Prefect,” he says. “You have visitors.”

It’s pointless of him to say so - Skrain can see the problem over his shoulder. Bajoran bioelectricity hums against his hunter’s eye, and he narrows his eyes slowly, taking them in: two Bajoran women, one of them utterly unfamiliar, buxom with heavy-lidded eyes, her rouge-painted lips and long flaxen hair a better indicator of her occupation than even the plunging v of her neckline. And behind her, almost hidden from his view, stands Tora Naprem.

This _must_ be the Kai’s doing.

He's a little surprised by how the mere sight of Tora sends a flare through the parched ash of his temper, stirring up the white, paper-thin remnants of his outburst this afternoon until they're caught in his throat. His nostrils flare, and he feels his chest constrict around a tight fist of resentment. He looks at her, avoiding his eyes, standing here, uninvited, unwanted, yet resolutely _here_ all the same, cowering behind her friend, flushing under his scrutiny, and he feels a schoolboy motivation to be cruel to her, to say something unkind just to see what she'll do.  

Kudek looks to him for orders and Skrain puts a hand up. “That will be all, Gil,” he says, and Kudek nods curtly, stepping back outside.

Skrain takes them both in slowly. The sleepy-eyed comfort woman stares him down, sultry almost by accident. But Tora stares steadfastly in the other direction, as though she’s here against her will. She’s wearing a long tunic-style dress the violet color of sunrise over what must be a new pair of pants, her own neck and chest hidden behind a long scarf that's draped over her chest and shoulders. The crisp fabric hangs loosely on her, untailored and new. It’s strange, he thinks, that he’s never considered how radiant she would be out of rags. Stranger still that he's both furious and relieved to see her - somewhere between pleased and rancorous.

“I don’t believe I requested your services,” he says to both of them, offering an ice cold smile.

“Didn't have to,” the comfort woman says. She jerks her chin towards the Kai. “She did.”

Behind him, Skrain feels the Kai stand from her chair. “I hope you’ll permit these women to join me as my guests,” she says, and what choice does he have when they’re already standing here? Still, he narrows his eyes at Tora; she still refuses to meet his gaze. He can’t decide if this pleases or annoys him.

“If this is a joke,” he tells the Kai, refusing to take his eyes off Tora, “I find it to be in poor taste.”

“I assure you,” the Kai says. “It isn't.” He flicks his eyes to her as she appears beside him. “Thank you for coming,” she tells them. “Please, if Gul Dukat will allow it - come in.”

Skrain remains there, obstructing them, making his silent objection clear. But finally, he relents, turning his body to let them past. He watches the comfort woman put herself between him and Tora, shepherding her into the room. He follows her back to the table very slowly, feeling with each passing moment more and more like a predator stalking his prey.

He takes a seat across from her, and still she won't look at him, and now it's really beginning to feel less like fear and more like an insult.

“I hope you don't object to my bringing you here,” says the Kai, taking a seat beside Tora, as though that doesn't make her feelings on the matter perfectly obvious.

“Please,” Skrain says, but in a way that makes it clear nothing could possibly please him any less than this sort of ambush. “I admit - I prepared myself for a dinner, not a mediation.”

“I feel confident we can do both,” the Kai says.

“I'm sure you do,” Skrain says, and he's not particularly proud of how it comes out.

He shifts his gaze to the comfort woman, increasingly annoyed with her presence, and her stubborn, unyielding gaze. She sits forward, pressing a line into the center of her chest, staring at him like she's trying to peer into his head. “And what, precisely, is the nature of your involvement in all this, Miss…”

“Ota,” the woman says, with a confidence that guarantees she's lying. A critical look from Tora doesn't do her many favors, either.

Skrain hums and takes a sip of kanar, which is quickly approaching room temperature, just to the side of too cold. “And are you here to act as Miss Tora’s voice? I ask because she seems to have misplaced hers.”

And just like that, he's rewarded with the full force of Tora Naprem's gaze - her eyes meet his at long last, and in spite of his anger, in spite of his spike of embarrassment at the juvenility of his tactics, he feels a surge of satisfaction.

“Can you speak, Tora?” he goads, just to see the electric current of anger come alive in her cheeks, burning bright red.

“I can,” she snaps, showing her adorably blunt teeth. “I choose not to. I have nothing to say to you.”

“You're shaking,” he observes, and she yanks her hands off the table, stowing them in her lap. The comfort woman - Ota is as good a name as any - thrusts in.

“You're staring,” she says, and Skrain does his best to reel himself in, annoyed and just slightly embarrassed. He's having too much fun driving at Tora’s soft underbelly; he's well aware of how unflattering it is. (But really, it's her own fault. How is he supposed to resist the urge to rise to her challenges when she won't stop issuing them?)

“Forgive me,” he says. “I'm accustomed to more talkative dinner guests.”

“Yeah?” Ota says. “I'm accustomed to actually having _dinner_.”

Skrain's ridges go bruise black - of course she hasn't given him her real name. She's no doubt planning to derail this as much as possible, and doesn’t want to face the consequences afterwards. As though he can’t track her back to whatever hole she’s hidden in.

“Enough,” the Kai barks, and despite himself Skrain goes obediently quiet. She stares around the table at them, commanding in a way Skrain hadn't expected she could be. “I did not call you here to exchange petty insults. I must ask that you restrain yourselves.”

Tora is clearly doing enough of that for both of them, but Skrain settles deeper into his bad mood, resolving to be less forthcoming with his outrage.

He should have known it would go this way - the Kai inserting herself into his business. Was she like this with Tirek, he wonders? Plotting and poking at tender flesh to some unknown end? Perhaps Tora has been a plant all along - clearly she’s more loyal to Kai than to him. A single word from Opaka, and she’s resumed her staring contest with the table, silent and servile. Full sentences from him haven’t evoked that kind of response in her once.

He hasn’t the slightest idea what Opaka would gain from it, but what does it matter? It’s clear where Tora’s loyalties lie.

“I have found you both to be reasonable and well-mannered when you put your minds to it,” the Kai says, voice even. “I would like you to please, if you would - do each other this courtesy.”

“Could we do it over food?” Ota asks. “Please?” she adds, as though it will overrule her complete lack of manners.

Skrain stares at her, hatred like boiling tar in his throat. But after a moment, he takes a deep breath and releases it. Fine, he thinks. He can be the bigger person. He can put his feelings aside - he is, after all, Cardassian, and what’s more, he’s their host. They weren’t invited, but that won’t interfere with his graciousness. He’ll put on a good face - and he does, smiling and spreading his hands in a wordless gesture of agreement.

As he stands and fetches their food, he feels an overpowering sense-memory - it comes out of the replicator steaming: thickly sliced zabu steaks, a bright verdant green, slick with oil and savory; halant stew, thin and brilliantly bitter; and a pair of plump taspar eggs, the hairy hatchlings boiled inside visible through the thin red membrane of the shell. He sets the spread before them, and as Tora visibly recoils, disgust raw in her face, he’s reminded of that first night he and the crew of the _Kornaire_ joined the Bajorans for a feast. That night, he’d witnessed the Bajorans’ opulence and frivolity firsthand - he and his fellows had gorged themselves, eating themselves sick as food continued flowing freely from the kitchens. The Bajorans, meanwhile, had been too busy pitying them, and had let their own food go cold. Skrain had watched them discard it - plates piled high with plenty - like trash, tossing it out into the lush jungle that surrounded the compound.

He sees Tora eye the food with poorly disguised horror, and he remembers exactly what he’d thought of her people back then, and realizes just how right he was. Bajorans can dress themselves in whatever colors they like. In the end, they’re all the same: selfish, spoiled, scheming creatures, the whole lot of them.

 _Your own fault for pretending otherwise_ , his father snaps at him in his head. _You have your mother’s weak mind and soft heart. You let your pity cloud your judgement. Useless. Pathetic._

He takes his seat at the head of the table and takes up his kanar again, slugging back the rest. He can no longer taste the bitterness of it.

“I hope you don’t object to replicated food, Tora,” he says, and he sees her flinch under his scrutiny. “Times are a bit too austere to permit me the luxury of a personal chef.”

She glares up at him with an intensity that warms his bitter heart. She snaps back at him through gritted teeth.

“Forgive we few Bajorans, sir, that we do not have more to take.”

He sits forward, eyes gleaming with challenge. “ _Do I hear correctly?_ ”

“That’s _enough_ ,” the Kai says, her voice like a gavel. “Both of you. I will _insist_ that you act civilly.”

They both go silent again, but this time, Tora doesn’t drop her eyes, and it delights him. They stare at one another, eyes boring into each others, and Skrain feels a strange sweep of excitement. Oh, selfish and scheming she may be, but he finds himself entranced by the strength of her conviction - invigorated by the challenge she presents, electrified, energized. Even in her soft subservient moments, she meets his gaze with fiery determination in her eyes.

 _What is it you want, Tora Naprem?_ he finds himself wondering. _Who is it that you serve?_

Her friend beside her is already digging into the food, as unscrupulous in eating as she is in speaking. Skrain takes a moment to study her out of the corner of his eye - well-dressed, loose-tongued, clearly willing to lap luxury from a pool on the floor if need be. Ota has all the trained desperation of a comfort woman who is good at her job, competent even at the worst of times, ready to sacrifice any semblance of morality in the pursuit of what small luxuries money can buy a Bajoran these days. Skrain can tell by way she smiles at him with her mouth full that for the right price, she must be quite good indeed - a sycophant for pay, a collaborator for as long as it serves her fancy. He’s well acquainted with Bajorans of her type. He thinks very little of them - she fails even momentarily to attract his interest.

But Tora Naprem - this is the first time he’s seen her clothed in even the semblance of luxury.

 _So what is it?_ he wonders. Not power - she’d sacrificed all of that today, and readily enough before then. Not money - she wears it poorly, at best.

He comes back to his old theory, but with less certainty than ever.

_Is it me? Am I what you want, Tora Naprem? Can you think of no other way to attract my attention?_

He huffs, almost amused. He pours himself another glass of kanar.

 _Do you_ **_like_ ** _being bullied? Do you come looking for my cruelty?_

She still hasn’t taken her eyes off of him, and at last he sighs and gestures to her food.

“Please,” he says. “Eat. Be you my guest or otherwise, I’d like you not to go hungry in my quarters.”

Something about Tora’s expression changes. She looks about to issue another insult, but she clearly restrains herself. She swallows and picks up her fork to begin picking at her plate. Satisfied, Skrain begins to do the same.

They spend several minutes eating in silence. Skrain can feel the Kai watching him, as though this was all _his_ idea, and she expects him to officiate. He cracks his taspar egg, watching the syrupy yolk drip slowly down the side.

“What _are_ you hoping to achieve with all this?” he asks her.

“I would like you both to speak to one another,” the Kai says, very patiently.

Skrain looks at Tora Naprem from across the table. She pointedly stabs her zabu steak, driving it through with such force that the tines clink against her plate.

“And barring that?” he asks.

“Conversation is essential for progress,” she says.

“Your Eminence,” Tora says, voice twisted with nausea. “Respectfully, I-- I don’t understand why this is necessary. Gul Dukat has made his feelings perfectly clear.”

Skrain narrows his eyes, puzzled.

“My feelings?” he repeats. This is hardly a  conversation to be held in front of uninvolved parties but he can’t help himself - when Tora flushes and goes silent, he takes it as an invitation to continue. “I reprimanded you for disobeying a direct command, Tora. I assure you - my _feelings_ hardly factored into it. Your behavior demanded it.”

Tora jerks her head up again. She’s hardly touched her food. He finds it unbelievable that she isn’t hungry - her anger must keep her sated, he thinks.

“My _behavior_ ,” she repeats, face flushed. “My _behavior?!_ My behavior was--” She glances at the Kai, and her voice immediately catches in her throat. She lowers her voice, flushing even brighter. “I didn’t disobey anyone. My behavior was in observance of my faith, and a simple show of respect - one which I hope bore no offense to Your Eminence,” she says to the Kai, and Skrain feels inflamed with fury once again.

The Kai simply nods, as though she’s due greater respect than he is. “I was flattered. It was very considerate.”

Tora gives him a look as though this alone should be enough. And perhaps, his logic provides, it should be. If the Kai bears no offense, then perhaps, in Tora’s mind, it ought to be enough. She opens her mouth to speak - pauses, and lets out a short, sharp breath.

“I am not here,” she says, “to talk about what happened. I have absolutely no interest in carrying on any conversation with you about this or any topic, and I came here--” She pauses again, looking at the Kai and then back at her untouched plate of food. “--I came here because it was asked of me.”

Skrain rankles, temper flaring - yes, of course, he thinks, because the Kai asked it of you, and in spite of your enduring inability to follow simple commands, _her_ commands you rush to obey. But before he can speak, she jumps in again, anger fresh in her mouth.

“And for that matter, it is _absurd_ to claim you were correcting me the same way you’d correct anyone else - I’ve seen you correct and command soldiers, Gul Dukat. You don’t secret them away and _scream at them_ , and abuse their personal property, and if you did, someone would’ve shot you by now. You wouldn't dare treat another Cardassian the way you treat me, and at this point I'm not entirely convinced you didn't hire me with the explicit intention of treating me poorly!”

Skrain can see the Kai rising to intervene, and he moves in before she gets the chance, ridges fanning, face dark - he’s sunk into his chair, tail flicking under the table. “If my methods were extreme,” he says, “it was in direct proportion to the weight of the infraction. I am a military man. I treat you the same as anyone under my command.”

“ _Myeral’ek!_ ” Tora barks, and from the way both the Kai and Ota turn, bug-eyed, to stare at her, Skrain can assume it’s a curse, and a heady one. “You respect the men in your command. You treat me like a servant you can abuse however you like. Well, I’m not, and I won’t consent to being mistreated.” She throws her cloth napkin on the table, and her utensils with it. “I _quit!_ ”

Skrain blanches, standing from the table just as she does the same. “ _Quit?_ ” he repeats. “You can’t _quit!_ ”

“I just have!” she shouts back at him.

“I won’t allow it!”

“You don’t have to!” she yells. “I’m _not_ your servant! You don’t _allow_ me to work for you, I choose it - and now I choose _not_ to!”

Now the Kai rises too, and Ota beside her. “Please,” she says, seriously. “Miss Tora. I ask that you reconsider. You could do tremendous good--”

“Your Eminence,” Tora says, interrupting her before Skrain can do it, and all at once he sees the mistiness in her eyes, the soft, sweet glaze of unshed tears. Something savage and pitying twists in his chest. “Please. I…” She glances down at the taspar egg, the boiled hatchling’s fist grasping up at her through the soupy yolk. She chokes back a sob, and Skrain feels it almost as though it’s risen in his own chest, though he doesn’t know why.

“I can’t bear it,” she says. Ota takes her hand without being asked, and Skrain sees her shudder. “I can’t bear it anymore.”

“We’re going,” Ota says, and then, without waiting for Skrain’s permission, she pulls Tora out of sight, and is gone.

* * *

 

B’hava’el is guiding Naprem back to her quarters when it all finally catches up with her - they'd escaped from Dukat’s quarters so hastily that she hadn't had time to cry. She still doesn't, but the tears come anyway, trotting out of her in short, sharp gasps. B’hava’el hushes her and pulls her close, and they hurry on a little faster.

“Come on,” B’hava’el urges her. “Almost there.”

Naprem expects to be in need of comfort, but the tears feel almost reflexive, secondary and thin. Her breath comes in wet, choked sobs, but her eyes only spit and sputter. They cast what few tears they have left, and then simply burn. Her vision swims and her throat constricts, but she does not cry - in fact, she’s ashamed, angry that tears overtook her so easily in his quarters. It was something about being near him; he drew them out of her like pus, like the poison from a wound he himself had made.

They round the corner. B’hava’el opens the door and they hurry inside. It shuts behind them, and Naprem immediately feels like she’s intruding. It’s late, long past the start of B’hava’el’s shift, though of course the space that blooms outside her living room viewport is no darker, no less empty.

B’hava’el draws her back into her room and sets her on the bed. She darts out of the room and returns with a hot towel, steaming and wet. She helps Naprem press it to her face, patting at her cheeks and her forehead.

“I should go,” Naprem murmurs, hands shaking.

“It’s past curfew.”

“I know,” Naprem says, thinking about all the money she’s keeping B’hava’el from making. Who knows how much this apartment costs - surely the rent is much more for a Bajoran comfort woman than it would be for a Cardassian officer, assuming they pay anything at all. B’hava’el needs every flake of latinum that floats her way to hold on to her hard won freedom. “I know - I’ll get out of your hair.”

She moves to stand. B’hava’el’s hands catch her by the shoulders and she forces her back down. “Sit,” she says, and Naprem sits, shocked at the strength in those soft hands.

“B’hava--”

“Shut up, you crazy old bat. You’re not going anywhere.”

The laughter that lurches between Naprem’s lips brings on a wave of tears she didn’t know she had left in her. She dabs at her eyes with the rapidly cooling cloth and B’hava’el kisses her forehead.

“Come on, get changed - I’m beat.”

Naprem obeys, but even when they lay down together, holding hands in B’hava’el’s giant bed between her sweetly-perfumed silk sheets, she can tell they won’t be sleeping for quite a while.

“You were amazing,” B’hava’el assures her. “I’ve never seen anyone talk to a Cardassian like that.”

 _That’s because everyone you know has common sense,_ Naprem wants to tell her, but she doesn’t.

“We’ll figure something out,” B’hava’el assures her, and Naprem prays she falls asleep soon, because she’s not sure how many more reassurances she can stomach. “You can stay here. I’m asleep through most of the day anyway - you can wait at Quark’s while I’m working. It’s going to be fine.”

It’s not going to be fine. Naprem knows this. In fact, she knows it without _feeling_ anything about it - that simple fact was once, itself, a sort of tragedy. But now? Now, that’s just how it is. It’s not going to be fine. It’s going to be awful and degrading, and if she’s lucky, it’ll all soon come to an end. That’s how it’s been for thirty years. Naprem was kidding herself to entertain, even for a moment, that it wasn’t going to continue being that way. She’s had her big moment now. And does she feel any better?

No.

Now, it’s just be a matter of making sure she doesn’t take B’hava’el down with her.

But she knows B’hava’el’s watching her, trying to be strong and impractical for Naprem’s sake. And so Naprem smiles, wearily, and pretends that she’s falling asleep.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Then she closes her eyes, and lies awake for hours.

* * *

 

On the other side of the station, Skrain Dukat does the same with his eyes open and unseeing.

Dinner had dissolved quickly after Tora and her friend had left. He’d debated going after them, of course, but the sickening, heavy jolt of _something_ had weighed him down, left him paralyzed. By the time he’d recovered - regained his breath and his composure - the Kai had been giving him a look of such pity and resentment that he’d dismissed her outright.

“I think you could have prevented that,” she’d told him, and in spite of her impertinence, the thing that made him angriest in that moment was that he agreed with her.

He’d finished his food and his bottle of kanar in a somber haze, then retreated to bed. Now, it’s been hours, and he’s regretting that he didn’t drink enough to knock himself flat on his back and silence his mind. But it’s too late for that. His head is spinning, gears and cogs burning hot as they turn. He can’t stop thinking about it - about _her._ About Tora Naprem.

He feels, very strongly and for no particular reason, that he may have actually done something _wrong._

There is very little reasoning behind this train of thought. In his eidetic memory, he replays the morning’s events over and over in his head, relives it, unspools it like film, examining it frame by frame. Their talk in his office, his decree, the flicker of dissention in her face, the quiet boil of discontent at his side. The docking ring, the Kai, her deliberate refusal to obey him. His soldiers and Gul Lumer staring at him in judgement - Tora unseeing, uncomprehending of what it all meant, what she’d done, unapologetic even when he’d taken her aside to reprimand her.

Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps he _hasn’t_ been treating her the way he’d treat a Cardassian in her place - but that’s only because he wouldn’t have to. No Cardassian would behave the way Tora does. No Cardassian would _dare_ test him with this level of insubordination, very less in front of another Gul. She forces his hand. Surely, she realizes that? That he treats her as well as she allows him to - that he treats her as she demands to be treated.

It’s 300 hours when he finally picks his PADD up off the nightstand, flicking through it. _Myeral’ek_ , she’d called him - he replays it in his memory, searches the linguistics database, which offers nothing.

“ _Myera’lek_ ,” he repeats, the syllables strange and sensuous on his tongue.

The database chugs for a moment, then generates the results of a search for similar words.

“ _Mera’lek_ ,” it says. Strange. He was certain he'd heard a sweet, sliding twist to the first syllable - in fact he's sure he did. “ _Planet of origin: M-Class 308, Union Asset 27, Status: Occupied, Colloquial name: Bajor._ ”

“Definition,” Skrain says pointedly.

“ _Noun. Meaning: ‘lie’. ‘Liar.’ Related words: meral. Verb. ‘To lie.’_ ”

 _Liar_. She’d called him a liar.

* * *

 

He doesn’t sleep. By 500 hours it’s pointless anyway. He gets up, showers, dresses, and makes himself a steaming cup of red leaf tea so strong that the smell makes his eyes water.

He answers the messages in his queue from Damar and Lukin. The representatives from the Occupational government will arrive within the hour - they’re scheduled to meet in a conference room on the habitat ring. Lukin’s forwarded him the security manifest - he approves it with hardly a glance. He takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair, eyes bleary, head aching. He takes a sip of his bitter tea and wrinkles his nose in disgust.

He detests this.

There’s a message from Kell, curt and sneering. His hearing with the Detapa Council is scheduled for this time tomorrow so it “won’t impede upon his duties as Prefect.” Clearly, Kell has no such qualms about impeding on his _sleep_ , the old bastard. Skrain deletes the message without sending a response.

He _detests_ this.

He finishes his tea, rinses out his mouth so he won’t reek of it, and slicks back his headfeathers before he leaves. The soldiers outside his room have rotated midway through the night - thankfully Gil Kudek isn’t there to further witness his shame, which is the only small reprieve he imagines he’ll be getting today.

The Kai is waiting for him with Lukin and her attendants. Skrain gives Lukin a short and not-quite-approving nod - he hasn’t forgiven the fiasco from yesterday, and he doesn’t intend to let Lukin think he has. The Kai, meanwhile, says only, “Good morning,” and then nothing else, which makes it clear she hasn’t forgiven _him_ either. Skrain scowls. The sooner this is over with, the better.

They walk to the conference room in strained silence, and take their seats the same way. Lukin and his men assemble around the room, expressions stiff and unfriendly. Skrain lounges in his seat at the head of the table, already bored. The lack of sleep is making him profoundly cranky and he’s looking forward to taking his bad mood out on the First Minister. Kai Opaka sits near him, but not next to him. The two empty chairs between them speak louder than any words could.

Ten minutes later, Damar arrives with the representatives. Kubus Oak is the first through the door, round face aglow with a broad, arrogant grin. Skrain feels himself sneer with disgust.

“Your Eminence,” Kubus purrs, moving forward to take the Kai’s hand. “Gul Dukat,” he says, his voice a mixture of amusement and disdain. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“First Minister Kubus,” Skrain says, not even trying to hide his contempt.

Kubus grins, sliding into a seat across from the Kai. He carries an offensive good humor, sitting straight and unbowed. “It’s always such a treat to be back on this station again,” he says. “And under such _competent_ leadership. Why, the whole station gleams from head-to-toe - and this! It’s all such a magnificent testament to what can be achieved with a little Bajoran-Cardassian cooperation, don’t you think?”

Skrain offers a pinched smile in return. “I suppose,” he says. There’s something particularly hideous about Kubus - obviously, he knows his place in all this: sycophantic, servile. But it's all performative; he plays his part, but his subservience is devoid of any respect. He doesn't submit to Skrain because he respects his position - he submits to Skrain in the laughing, scoffing way of a man who's only doing it so someone else can feel big, pitying and sarcastic. _We both know what this is_ , he seems to say.

“Kai Opaka,” Kubus says, turning his attention to her, either not noticing Skrain’s disgust or not minding it. “What a privilege it must be to be selected to serve another Prefect.”

The Kai looks at Kubus, then at Skrain. She bears no expression at all.

“We shall see,” she says.

Kubus looks surprised, and glances between them. Then, he chuckles, as though she's made a good natured joke. “Well,” he says. “I hope we won’t be waiting too long.” He ushers the rest of his staff through the door and they filter in, one after the other.

The Kai finally stands and comes around the table to receive them. There’s almost sixteen in total - ministers and aides, politicians all - and they come in one by one, bowing and letting the Kai grasp their ears. Kubus introduces each one of them in turn.

“May I humbly present Second Minister, Ardo Dile… her personal aide, Miss Kiru Treg… the Speaker of the Chamber, Tomtash Nikori… the Keeper of Ceremonies, Daryu Wir… the Representative of Western Interests, Ito Jaarda… the Representative of Eastern Interests, Kana Noyahi… the Representative of Northern Interests, Shotras Coxari…”

Skrain watches them, scrutinizing each one. They’re well-dressed, well-fed, clean and polite. A few of them are as casual and cavalier as Kubus Oak, but most maintain a professional air. And yet, Skrain sees that many of them - nine of the sixteen Kubus introduces - produce gifts for the Kai to receive, bowing their heads and murmuring the words that Tora said yesterday.

“ _Un’naz’gul_. Please accept this humble offering, Your Eminence.”

The Kai nods and receives each with graciousness and poise: a small box of a rare spice so pungent Skrain can taste it on the air; a necklace of ornate stone; an engraved stone tablet; a bottle of spring wine; a child’s doll. And as the Kai’s assistants place the gifts on the table, Skrain feels a steady pool of dread forming in his chest.

His nostrils flare, and he sniffs, rubbing surreptitiously at his nose.

 _Her own fault_ , he thinks, stubbornly. _Her own fault._

In the back of his mind, he hears Tora Naprem’s voice, clear as day: _Liar._ **_Liar._ **

* * *

 

The meeting is tedious - but of course it is. Kubus Oak spreads himself as thick as paste around the room, and Skrain takes a bland, tasteless pleasure in Kai Opaka’s clear dislike for him. He’d been looking forward to working out his frustration by making Kubus squirm, but he finds it holds no interest for him. None of this does - the vapid platitudes, the unengaging banter, the shallow bandying of the same four ideas the Occupational Government has had to advance the Cardassian agenda on Bajor since the Cardassians landed. It’s all so boring it’s giving him a headache. He sits there, watching the little rodents run themselves ragged, as though they can cure his hellish mood with brown nosing alone, and every few minutes, when the attention is off him, he lets his eyes drift to the pile of gifts in the center of the table.

 _Liar_ , Tora Naprem hisses in his head. _Liar._

He really can't seem to pay attention anything else. He stares at the gifts, the conversation like white noise in his ears. He can't stop thinking about her - Tora Naprem is the only thing that's really on his mind.

The meeting goes on and on - he'd hoped Kubus would be capable of constraining himself to a single topic, but soon they're talking trade, supply distribution, requisitions. The conversation goes as it always does: Kubus offering his complete compliance and none of his resources. The resources and peoples of the East, North, and South, he offers up happily. But when it comes to the capital city of Ashalla, he has an endless list of requests, and an even longer list of reasons why they can offer no resources of their own. Kubus is always more than happy to give away anything that belongs to someone else. At one point, he even claims to have brought one of the gifts in the center of the table, though Skrain remembers quite clearly that he brought none. No one corrects him, even as he commandeers it in real time. Skrain looks around the table as the representative who _did_ bring the wine sinks into their chair without a word.

Cowards, all of them - selfish, self-serving hedonists, more than willing to sacrifice others in the name of their golden city in the center of the continent. It's exactly what Skrain has come to expect of them. This is how Bajorans are, he reminds himself - this is all there is to the species.

It seems like an eternity before they’re finally released. Kubus Oak makes his last insipid remark, gesturing grandly to the rest of the table.

“And let me extend our deepest gratitude to Gul Dukat - a round of applause ladies and gentlemen, thank you, thank you…” He leads the clapping with a smile on his face and Skrain narrowly resists the urge to shoot him. “A wonderful opportunity - I hope it doesn’t sound self-serving - but I believe Bajor is in good hands.”

Another round of applause, increasingly mocking. Skrain feels the pain in his temples spike. He wishes he could flush them all out an airlock.

“You're too kind,” Skrain says, meaning it literally. Kubus might as well be applauding himself and his cabinet for a job well done. He hasn't lost that smug, self-obsessed air even after decades of supplication. Somehow, with everything that's happened throughout the Occupation, Kubus Oak has convinced himself that he's winning this particular game of endurance. And if Skrain Dukat’s seven predecessors have anything to say about it - he is.

Skrain’s about to announce the meeting adjourned when the Second Minister, a high-browed woman named Ardo Dile, leans forward with clear intent to speak.

“One more item,” she says, “before we adjourn - Gul Dukat, our cabinet had received word that you had taken on a Bajoran aide of some… disrepute.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Kubus sighs, as though he’s just now remembering. “Yes. Miss Tora - well, that’s hardly something to submit to you now of all times. Though, of course, when your busy schedule allows, we ought to discuss it…”

“It is to the Prefect’s benefit to know!” Ardo argues. “It is our duty to inform him as soon as possible--”

The Representative of Eastern Interests, Kana Noyahi, sits forward in his chair - he has the same brown skin as Tora does, and the same tired look in spite of his smooth face. “Tora?” he repeats. “You don’t mean Tora Naprem? I had no idea she was still alive!”

A few of the other representatives exchange looks - some confused, some significant. Skrain feels the Kai shift beside him, posture straightening, expression shifting from neutral to outright disapproving. He looks around the room, appraising them. Something churns in his stomach, but he doesn't give voice to it. He is profoundly tired of people trying to tell him what to think about Tora Naprem.

“Yes, yes,” Kubus says, making placating gestures. “Prefect, I suppose we must address it now that it’s been brought up - with deepest respect, I’d like to communicate our… reservations about the quality of Tora Naprem’s character.”

“Am I to understand you’re familiar with her?” Skrain asks. His annoyance is gnawing at him, but he rests his chin on the flat of his finger, careful to betray nothing.

“Not personally,” Kubus says. “I was a friend of her mother’s - Tora Cebahi, one of Eastern Province’s most gifted artists, may she know peace.”

 _Then what do you know?_ Skrain thinks, snidely. There are many people who know his father, Chief Archon Procal Dukat, and consider themselves his friend; not one of them could be tasked, on that merit alone, to describe the content of _Skrain's_ character. The supposition alone is absurd.

Ardo jumps in, thin lips pursed. “Surely, you’re aware she’s a political dissident.”

“I’ve familiarized myself with the details of her arrest,” Skrain says. As though he wouldn't have - as though he would have hired her without knowing her record!

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize the name…” murmurs one junior officer.

“Tora Naprem,” Kubus announces to the table, “was active before the Occupation as a political dissident - she was one of the organizers of the March on Ashalla. One of the most outspoken leaders of the Dissolution Party and the anti-government movement before Annexation.”

Gasps. Murmuring.

“It goes beyond that,” Kana says. “She’s an anarchist. A black stain on Bajor’s history.” He jabs one round finger against the table. “I _was_ aware of her personally - I attended several of her speeches as the governor of East Province, and I was horrified. She has no respect for authority - she was a traitor to her station and to our people. She would have torn the very fabric of our society apart if the Cardassians hadn’t stepped in. I’m shocked to hear she’s still alive, very less acting in service to you, Gul Dukat.”

Before Skrain can reply, Ardo inserts herself again: “She is a salacious criminal of poor moral standing. I have it on good authority that she has been both directly and indirectly responsible for all manner of chaos and calamity.”

“She is a traitor to our people!” Kana cries. “She is a purveyor of deceit! She routinely spread slanderous lies about me and my colleagues--”

“She sewed violence and rebellion everywhere she went!” Ardo agrees.

“If her mother's temperament is any indication, she's deeply unstable,” Kubus adds.

“She is a ruinous leech who ought to have been dispatched years ago,” Ardo says.

“She is the disease that nearly brought Bajor to it's ruin!” Kana says.

“A terrorist!” suggests one representative.

“Surely such a person should not be permitted to influence the Prefect’s opinions of our people,” pipes another.

“I've heard _enough_ ,” Skrain snaps.

The whole room goes silent. He boils beneath his skin.

“I don’t believe I _asked_ your opinion about my _personal aide_ ,” he snarls, making sure they see the glint of his teeth. “And if I _had_ , I’m afraid I’d expect information more substantive than _rumors_ and _speculation_ . Perhaps that information would pass for legitimate in _your_ chambers of government. But I require _my_ briefings be grounded in fact.”

He glares around at them, rife with contempt. “I realize you must have had little to do but _gossip_ over the past few years - I suppose I can’t blame you. But I would hope, however _humble_ your role nowadays, you’d commit yourselves to performing it with dignity.”

Kubus Oak scoffs. “Gul Dukat,” he says, in that arrogant, careless tone of his, “we’re only try to inform you--”

“Are you _implying_ ,” Skrain sneers, “that I would take on a personal aide without being _intimately_ familiar with her personal history, including her arrest record?”

Kubus blanches, and Ardo Dile visibly swallows. “No,” Kubus says. “No, sir, of course not, we were only--”

“And are you under the impression that if I wanted your opinion, I wouldn’t be capable of asking for it?”

“No--”

“Then I would invite you to consider the obvious: if I do not ask for your opinion, I don’t want it. Either because I have all the information I need, or because I regard any opinion you _may_ have as irrelevant.” He leans in to make sure they all hear him. “Is that clear?”

The representatives shrivel in their seats, looking deeply nervous. Kubus’ cheeks are faintly red, and there’s a look of quiet fury in his face, like he can’t believe Skrain’s said what he has. Skrain narrows his eyes and dares him to argue.

He doesn’t. His nostrils flare, but he purses his lips tight and dips his head.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course, Gul Dukat. We… yield to your wisdom.”

Skrain can tell he’s sitting there wishing it had been Skrain’s head on the floor of the Prefect’s office instead of Tirek’s. It should bother him, but instead, it leaves him with a smug sense of satisfaction.

* * *

 

The Kai’s assistants go on ahead of them with armfuls of gifts, leaving Skrain and Opaka to make small talk. She’s said so little to him since last night, though, that Skrain’s startled by the sound of her voice.

“I didn’t realize you had such an… adversarial relationship with the First Minister.”

Skrain glances over at her to see if she’s joking - he rarely knows when Bajorans are joking. But she looks serious, eyes straight ahead, gait unharried.

“That would imply I regard the First Minister as an adversary,” he says. “I don’t.”

“But you do not care for his company,” the Kai says.

Skrain gives her another sideways glance, but she isn’t looking at him. “No,” he admits. He doesn't see the point in lying.

“I admit, I’m surprised,” the Kai says. “I was under the impression that you were a man who liked to be told what he wants to hear. Kubus Oak is more than willing to do just that.”

Skrain frowns, taking a deep breath.

“I dislike any man who lacks strength in his convictions,” he says. Kubus is a coward - an arrogant coward, at that, willing to sacrifice anyone and anything to secure his own comfort. Even at the end of the meeting, he’d seized Skrain’s hand and shaken it, trying to wring an assurance out of him that there were no hard feelings between them, that of _course_ the Occupational government would full-throatedly support anyone Skrain selected for his personal staff, when not ten minutes before, he’d been ready to declare Tora mentally unsound.

“Fascinating,” the Kai says, with a meditative hum. “And yet you disciplined Miss Tora for exactly that, did you not?”

Skrain’s hand curls into a fist at his side, and for some time, they continue on down the hall in silence.

Finally, when he can’t bear to stew on it any longer, he nods to the bundles of gifts in the assistant’s arms.

“Is that… sort of presentation… typical?” he asks, knowing the answer.

The Kai, to her credit, simply nods in a slow, gentle way. “Before the Occupation, it was common observance for those who would meet with me to present me with a humble gift of some kind. It’s less common now - I could never ask of anyone who has so little to give. But for Bajorans who were alive before the Occupation, I suppose it’s a tradition.”

“And you consider that appropriate?”

“You do not,” the Kai deduces.

Skrain grits his teeth, squaring his jaw against the flash of indignance and shame that bursts in his mouth as she says it. He didn’t realize that anything so simple would ever need explaining, but here they are - he does his best to present it to her as though she’s a child (though, of course, none of his own were ever so selfish as to require an explanation).

“Cardassian culture has a profoundly… different view of the exchange of gifts,” he begins. “Outside the bounds of courtship, a gift of anything - very less food or drink - would imply that the recipient could not provide for themselves or their family. It would be considered deeply rude for me to present someone such as yourself with a gift.”

The Kai turns to look at him, and he sees something dawning on her all at once.

“You thought it would offend me?” she says.

“Hasn’t it?” Skrain asks, incredulous.

“Not at all,” the Kai says. “Bajor has a rich gift-giving culture - it’s considered polite. Generous. It shows that you are not only willing but _eager_ to share your good fortune with others. That you welcome them.”

 _Generous._ The Kai considered Tora Naprem _generous?_ Did she, then, consider _him_ selfish? Because he didn’t present her with a gift? He’d brought her to this station, hadn’t he? Seen to her safety? To her comfort? Hosted her for dinner, done his best to provide lively and intellectually stimulating conversation? (Well, when he could, of course - she can’t blame him for the distress she herself has caused him.) He’s been an excellent host. He’s put aside his own feelings as frequently as possible, allowed her any number of infractions that ought to have seen her confined to her quarters for the duration of her visit. Isn’t that _generous?_ Hasn’t he been thoroughly _generous?_

But the Kai continues on without him. “I believe I understand now - there’s been a cultural miscommunication, Gul Dukat. Both of you were simply remaining dutiful to your understanding of what was most polite.”

 _Dutiful?_ Skrain turns the word over in his brain with the same sense of indignance. There was nothing dutiful about what Tora had done. “You said yourself that the tradition was dying out.”

Agony flashes in the Kai’s face before she shutters it behind layers of propriety. She turns to look away from him. “Perhaps,” she agrees, clearly forcing her voice to remain calm. “But Miss Tora is an observer of the old ways. Once, that was her duty - her _d’jarra_ , her caste. She was _ih’valla_ , tasked with the preservation of Bajoran history and culture. Even now, I can see she takes that duty quite seriously. I would posit,” she says, looking at him, “she takes on _every_ assignment she’s given with that level of sincerity.”

“Clearly not,” Skrain scoffs. He lengthens his stride on purpose, annoyed with their conversation.

“Gul Dukat,” Kai Opaka says, scurrying to keep up with him. “I cannot give you infinite chances to prove my first impressions of you wrong.”

Skrain stops in his tracks and whips his neck around to glare down at her - there’s not far to go. She’s kept step with him admirably.

“What is your investment in Tora Naprem?” he snaps. Around them, the guards come to a stop, glancing at each other, perplexed. “What is this little _campaign_ of yours all about? What is she to you?”

“A kind stranger,” the Kai says. “Nothing more.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“We’d never met before yesterday. I knew little of her except through her mother’s work.”

“Then what do you care?” Skrain asks. “What does it matter to you what I do with her? I’ll ask you again: what is this _about?_ ”

“Bajor needs you,” the Kai says, with such conviction that it almost knocks him back.

“Excuse me?”

“I said _Bajor needs you_. She needs you both.”

Skrain stares at her, and the Kai stares back, her conviction unwavering.

“I realize you may not like me,” she says. “Or respect my position. But this Occupation effort is killing my people, and ruining my home. You and I both know that total victory of either side over the other is untenable - perhaps it can be accomplished,” she says, ignoring the disbelieving looks of the soldiers around her, “but not without greater losses than either side can bear. We have no choice - we _must_ work together if this is all to come to a favorable conclusion. And I’ve _seen_ what you two will do together. Bajor needs a strong leader. Someone willing to find a way to work _beside_ her people, not against them.”

What she's suggesting is patently ridiculous. At this point, Skrain can't even imagine making it through a conversation with Tora without screaming, very less forging any kind of enduring partnership with her. The Kai's been witness to that much. So what does she mean, she's  _seen_ what they'll do together? It's a ludicrous thing to say. And yet so much of it is what Skrain himself has said since the beginning - the very sum of his wildest dreams for this planet. Bajor and Cardassia, working together as one…

“And if you’re wrong?” he finds himself asking.

“I’m not,” says the Kai.

“If you _are_ ,” Skrain insists.

“If I am,” the Kai says, emanating calm, “knowing what you do now, are you truly content to allow Miss Tora to suffer as a result of a simple misunderstanding?”

Skrain watches her for a long time, trying to ignore the answer burning in his chest.

He remembers Tora’s hand trembling as she presented the Kai with her earring. He remembers the fear in her face as he took hold of her, the betrayal as he tore that small gift from her hand and sent it flying. He remembers the tears that glistened in her eyes as she retreated from his table.

Is he content to allow that to be the end? To leave her, unjustly accused? To leave her to cry?

No. _No._ He isn’t. Of course he isn’t.

But he hasn't the slightest idea how to fix it.

* * *

 

Naprem has been sitting in B’hava’el’s apartment, alone, since mid-morning. B’hava’el had woken early - she seemed disoriented, no doubt from the complete up-ending of her sleep schedule. She’d headed out after breakfast for something she called ‘freelance’ - a brief stint on the Promenade to catch the officers coming off the night shift. She’d said she’d be back if she didn’t pull anyone, but she’s been gone for hours, which suggests she’s been more successful than she’d assumed she’d be. And it’s just as well - Naprem’s taken up a vigil at her personal terminal, and she’s loathe to be disturbed. She nurses her tea, cold as ever, and she tries to plan her next move.

She didn’t sleep. At least, not that she remembers - it’s all a little hazy. She thinks she may have dozed, that maybe some hours passed quicker than others. Maybe they did, but maybe they didn’t. All time seems to pass the same way now; both too fast and too slow, there and not there, just like the rest of her. She is cemented in a chrysalis of her own dread. She didn’t sleep, and, blessedly, she didn’t dream. No divine ordinance found her in the otherworldly hours of the early morning. No inspiration came in through the viewport to interrupt her increasingly nihilistic, spiraling thoughts.

But that’s fine, she thinks. She may not have much time left to sleep, anyway.

In the intervening hours, she’d instead made peace with what few options she has.

It’s not the first time she’s done this. She’s done it a few times: once, briefly, towards the beginning. Once in Dajuu, when the outcomes seemed obvious - once more recently when they’d sent her from Cibawea, more alone than she’s ever been in her life.

She’s not a pessimist, she doesn’t think. She’s just… tired. Tired and resigned to this. The time to fight is thirty years behind her, and it’s taken her this long to come to terms with that. She doesn’t like to think of this as giving up. She likes to think of it as… being practical.

She has exactly two options, and they’re the same two options she’s had for years. She can live - she can continue on, and suffer whatever creative new indignities Gul Dukat can invent to inflict on her. She can risk dragging poor B’hava’el - B’hava’el, who has been kinder to her than anyone - into the mud with her. She can live, and suffer.

Or she can stop.

Naprem takes a deep breath, and lets it out with a shudder. She puts her hand over her eyes and leans into it, the light of the personal terminal pressing between her fingers.

This is stupid.

It’s stupid - it is. She knows that. She’s not going to just roll over and _die_ , is she? Not for _Gul Dukat_ of all people.

She’s just so _tired._

When they sent her here, to Terok Nor, she was prepared to die. That’s what she thought she was coming here to do. And she’d been fine with that, at the time - she’d had nothing left. She’d kept her mouth shut for almost twenty years for Uru’s sake, and in the end it’d all been for nothing. Those years of inaction lay at her feet - she can’t have them back, she can’t change them. And what would any of it have changed anyway? She knows the score. She’s just one person. No one’s stopped the Occupation before now, and she wouldn’t have stopped it either. She’s alone, and no one’s coming to help her, and the people she tried to protect are all gone. Every one of them.

She’s been scrolling through that exact list for hours - the thing she always does when she’s looking to punish herself for living, these days: reviewing death dates. Usually, she has to be quick about it, strategic. Has to connect the file to one she has in review, flick away quickly before her computer logs her activity and Pomam writes her up. But in B’hava’el’s quarters, she can linger. She can stay on one personnel file for hours, staring at one date, tunneling into it as it sucks the color from her surroundings, as it burrows into her chest with needle-sharp teeth, as it turns her inside out and upside down. Staring at one file, with it’s spartan amount of text, reading between the lines the many paragraphs of things unlisted there.

Naprem had never seen eye-to-eye with her mother. Never once. It would be a lie to say they weren’t close - they were, of course. How could they not be? They’d slept in the same bed from the night Naprem was born until the night she left home and never returned. But they’d never agreed on anything. Her mother - her beautiful, sickly, shy mother who was scared of everything, from mice to men to Naprem’s own shadow. At the beginning, after she’d been arrested, Naprem used to shut her eyes tight and think, _at least my mother’s alright._ Her mother, who never left her house in the mountains, who hadn’t taken a lover in years, and who hadn’t spoken to her since she’d left at 18. Naprem had been so sure, back then - her mother would sooner burrow into the hillside than be caught up in all this.

But the file lays open on the terminal - arrested not one year after Naprem was, dead a year after that. The details have been redacted, but the dates are precise.

Tora Cebahi, Laborer #33781. Deceased.

How is it, Naprem wonders, numbly, that after all this, after everything, she’s still here? How is it that everyone she loves is gone, and she’s still here?

She takes a deep breath. She closes the file. And she sits very still, feeling unbearably heavy.

Back at Cibawea, when Gul Duvek died, she’d had the same thought - there’s nowhere to run. There’s no getting away from this, not with her record, not with her finances. She has no connections, no money, nowhere to go.

People talk about those who’ve escaped all the time - the ones who got offworld - but the ones who escaped got out early, and now, from what she’s heard, they wander the cosmos aimlessly, starving and sick, untethered, with no home and no hope. There’s whispers, of course, fevered rumors - that the Federation will come for them, that an organized Bajoran resistance will rise up from beneath Cardassia’s boot.

But Naprem has lived through thirty years of captivity as an idealist - she knows the reality of the situation. The reality is, no one’s coming for them. Not for her, anyway. Maybe for B’hava’el, or her children, or her children’s children. But not for her. She’ll die like this, be it today or tomorrow or thirty years from now: tiny, and tortured, and alone. That’s how it is. Dukat isn’t special - he’s not _worse_ than anything she’s come across, not really. But he isn’t better.

“What is, is what is,” Naprem whispers to herself. _What is, is what is._ An old, feeble mantra.

There’s nowhere to run to, no way to run there. She’s trapped. This cage is where she dies, one way or another. No escape, no freedom, no safety but in death. That’s what the resistance fighters say.

She folds her hands. Rests her mouth against her fingers.

What is she supposed to do?

B’hava’el will be back in a few hours. One way or the other, Naprem wants to be gone by then. She’s caused her enough trouble. That’s what she was supposed to be doing on the terminal - researching escape routes, finding a new way forward. But instead she’d fallen headlong into the past, the way she always does.

There’s Quark’s, but Quark won’t help her - not when it’s Dukat he’s up against. She doesn’t have enough money to compensate him for the trouble, and for that matter, it’s possible no one does. He won’t risk his livelihood for her, and in spite of herself, she doesn’t quite blame him. Any other ways off the station are few and far between; the only method designed to transport organic material are transport ships.

She could put in to transfer herself. It wouldn’t be hard. But then what? Labor transport ships are some of the most closely monitored and aggressively secured of any Cardassian vessel - there’ll be guards posted end-to-end. Dukat hasn’t revoked her codes - _still_ , for some reason - but she can’t assume that the carte blanche he’s extended her on the station (or _did_ , past tense) will extend to a transport vessel. She can’t just waltz onboard and tell them Dukat’s authorized her to go wherever she wants. Or… well, of course, she _could_ , but she knows it wouldn’t end well. If Darhe’el and her own past experience is any indication, respect of Dukat’s authority barely extends to either end of this station, very less planetside. Heading in the opposite direction, towards any of the offworld prison camps, is an even more dangerous idea.

The fact is, there’s nowhere in the quadrant where it’s _safe_ to be Bajoran. Not on Bajor, not with Starfleet, not with the migrants or the rebels. Obviously not in any Cardassian facility or prison camp.

She bites her lip.

There’s Suga, she thinks.

 _No_ . She condemns the thought, crushes her eyes shut. No. Absolutely not. Suga Ede is dead. And if he’s not, he should be. She won’t invite him or any of his… _terrorist_ friends back into her life. Any life she’d have with them would be worse than any onboard this station.

That brings her back to the cage.

She opens her eyes. She tries to breathe even and slow. She just needs to think, she tells herself - she has a little time, she can come up with something. She can't give up, not after all this - she can't just lay down and die after everything she's sacrificed, after everything she's been through. She just needs to think.

She pushes her breath out, takes another one in. And then, after a moment, she dips her fingers into her cold tea, and brings them to the diamond shaped pendant dangling from her _d’ja pagh,_ wetting the labradorite until it's dripping against her collarbone.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, cupping the damp stone near her face as a smell overwhelms her senses. She can smell them: her mother's oil paints. She takes a deep breath and she can smell more: the rich, dark soil of the garden. The soft, wet scent of the forest drifting in through the open door of the veranda. The smell of honey, citrus, and lavender wafting from the kitchen. The gentle scent of irises on her mother’s skin.

_Home._

It's with her - even in this cage, she carries it with her. She's the only one, now. She's the only Tora left. She's the only one who can carry all these memories any further.

 _But they're so heavy_ , some part of her murmurs. They're heavy and waterlogged, soaked through with grief, impossible to unload but also impossible to bear. And she's so tired - so tired, and so alone.

 _And selfish_ , she thinks - but not in her own voice. **_Selfish_ ** , and it comes out ragged and gasping from her mother's mouth - one word said through weeping, the day of the rally. One of the last conversations they'd ever had. (They'll ever have, Naprem thinks, dully. Present tense.) She’d come home late, stinking of teenage rebellion and hope, and her mother had been up waiting for her, and they'd fought, her mother in tears all the while. She’d called her _selfish_ like it was her name. After all this time, Naprem still feels it like the punch of a tracheotomy - hole in her throat, air leaking out of her in a hiss.

Selfish. Like watching your well-meaning, desperately shy mother give everything to raise you, then run off to live with your aunts without a second thought, that kind of selfish? Like watching your mother’s soft, thin boned hands craft your meals and coax color across a canvas and braid your hair, and never lifting your own to care for her in return? That kind of selfish? Like hearing your sweet, slight, conservative mother trip and fumble her way through a hundred thousand conversations, hearing her reach for the right words to say and finding only the wrong ones, seeing her embarrassment and still regarding her with anger, with resentment? Banishing her from your life with silence? Disparaging her to anyone who would listen, even knowing that for all she’d done to deserve your disdain, she’d done more to deserve your pity and forgiveness? Doing your damndest to forget her when you'd slept beside her every night until you were eighteen?

That kind of selfish?

Naprem closes her eyes and puts her hands on the table, feeling ill with grief.

And then, there's a knock at the door.

She jerks up, eyes wide, staring. B’hava’el wouldn't knock - that's absurd, it's her apartment, why would she knock? The only logical conclusion is that it's someone else, but who, Naprem has no idea.

There's another knock, more forceful this time, but like it's trying not to be. Naprem shrinks back, fearful. A client? A competitor? Or worse - someone looking for _her_ , not B’hava’el. Instantly, she moves to wipe her own history from the personal terminal.

The chime - who is it? Who could possibly be that persistent?

“Miss Ota.”

Dukat’s voice sends a jagged streak of lightning down her spine. Her heart thunders in her ears.

“Miss Ota - I think we both know that's not your real name - this is Gul Dukat. Open the door, if you would.”

Naprem's heart is beating so hard - her ears are ringing, and the tips of her fingers rattle against the table. By this point, the panic response is involuntary. She pulls her breath in like she's trying to swallow it, reeling in like a line she's overcast. She trembles in her seat, rigid - she can't move. She's paralyzed, her body stiff.

 _Go away_ , her brain hisses, _go away!_

She hears him sigh and press the chime again. She can't get up. She wants to run, to hide in B’hava’el’s bedroom until he leaves - surely he can't expect an answer? How did he find her?

She can't breathe, she can't _breathe_ , but on the other side of the door, Dukat exhales a sigh.

“Computer, record message,” he says.

“ _Recording_ ,” says the VI, in spite of Naprem’s fevered hissing and shaking of her head.

“Miss Ota,” Dukat says - and then pauses. It's the pause that interrupts Naprem’s panic - a strained, uneven shift in tone, another sigh he fails to mask. Annoyance? Exhaustion? It’s impossible to tell. “Or should I say - Miss _Gyros._ This is Gul Dukat,” he says at last, no doubt convinced he's speaking to a machine.

Naprem’s heart leaps into her mouth. He knows B’hava’el’s name, her _real_ name - he knows where she lives. No doubt, he knows that Naprem is here on the other side of the door - all he would have to do, she knows, is give the override code, and they would be face-to-face.

So why doesn’t he? What is this? What is he waiting for? Is this some kind of elaborate threat?

“It is my hope,” Dukat says, voice measured, “that we can be civil with one another - I realize you must be under the impression you’re doing Tora Naprem a favor, keeping her from me. But I would ask that you stop obstructing communication between us.”

 _Obstructing communication between them?_ Standing up for her, he means. Naprem pushes herself up from the table - should she hide? That's what B’hava’el would have her do, she's sure of it. But he isn't coming in, he doesn't even know she's here. She can't hide from someone who isn't even going to come in, what would be the point in that? Even the sound of his voice makes her legs shake with fear and her heart bunch with resentment, but she's not so cowardly that she's going to run and hide from someone who doesn't even know she's there.

“I don't know what you hope to gain by this endeavor,” Dukat continues, voice growing more imperious. “But whatever you're planning, you should know that I will not be open to any sort of exchange - Professor Tora is my personal aide, and I will not abide her being held to ransom.”

What in heavens is he talking about? _Held to ransom?_ He can't possibly think B’hava’el is holding her against her will?

Also - she's most decidedly _not_ his personal aide anymore, didn't she say as much? She quit! She said she quit, and still, he refuses to just-- leave her _be_! The anger bubbles up all at once, not pushing the fear aside, but commingling, sitting like a thin patina of oil on murky water. What does he want, why is he here? To accuse her closest friend of harboring her? To what end?

“I leave this message as a courtesy - it is my dearest hope that you will not force me to take more drastic measures--”

That's really all Naprem can stomach - before she's had time to even consider the sensible option, she's crossed the room and flung the door open to Dukat’s utterly stupefied expression.

“What measures?” Naprem demands.

Dukat’s mouth hangs open; he stands there, wide-eyed, blinking.

“Professor,” he says, rattled with shock.

“What measures?” Naprem asks, more forcibly. “What could you possibly want from her? Or me, for that matter?”

Dukat stares at her, still blinking, mouth still working feebly, like all the remaining words of his speech to B’hava’el’s door VI have condensed into a chalky brick that now rests against the bottom row of his teeth.

“I believe I made myself clear…” he manages, finally. “If you'd allowed me to complete the message…”

“Really?” Naprem folds her arms and props herself against the doorframe, frank in her disbelief. “Go on, then. Finish it.”

Once again, this seems to catch Dukat completely off guard. He flubs a little longer, and Naprem feels a small vindictive part of her delight in his discomfort. His broad shoulders seem to shrink back into his cape. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He breathes out, clearly trying to get his bearings, trying to gather his pomposity up again to launch back into his little speech.

“I… would like to speak with you,” he says. “Unimpeded by any… interlopers.”

“And what if I don’t want to speak to you?” Naprem snaps. “As I’ve told you already that I don’t?”

Dukat’s mouth snaps shut, and he purses his lips, drawing them even thinner than they already are. For a moment, it looks like he might rise to meet her temper, and Naprem feels a hot, sick sense of satisfaction - he isn’t fooling anyone, she thinks. She sees right through his little act.

But instead of shouting, she sees him take a deep breath, which he exhales, slowly. Angrily. When he speaks, his voice is calm.

“I would ask,” he says, “that you contain that particular impulse.”

Naprem’s hands curl into fists at her sides.

“Why?” she snaps. She’s past being polite with him.

She sees him take another deep, angry breath, exhaling through his nose. “May I come in?”

“No!”

Dukat gapes at her. “What?”

“I said no!” Naprem stomps her foot a little, fury rattling and fragile in her chest.

Dukat’s eyes bulge and he leans in to hiss at her in a conspiratorial tone. “You really want us to have this conversation out in the open? I was under the impression you took great umbrage to my decision to conduct our _last_ conversation in public--”

A buzz of electricity pricks its fangs against Naprem’s nape. She flushes, tightening her fists, thrusting her chest forward and pushing into his space, even though she has to push up on her tiptoes to do it.

“If _that’s_ what you call a conversation, then you can have it with the VI,” she says, and then she steps back and makes to close the door.

Dukat puts his hand over the recess so she can’t close the door in his face.

“Professor,” he says, “I didn’t come to reprimand you - I am asking you to be reasonable.”

“No, you're not! You're asking me to be charitable - to extend you a great deal more common decency than you've ever afforded me, and unfortunately for you, I don't make those sorts of concessions for men I don't work for.”

“You _do_ work for me,” Dukat says.

Naprem barrels on as though she didn't hear him. “How did you even know where to find me?”

Annoyed disbelief flashes across Dukat’s face. “I'm the Prefect - I made a subtle inquiry with the Records department--”

“A _subtle inquiry_?”

“It was simple enough, given Miss Gyros’ physical description…”

Protectiveness twangs in Naprem's chest. “You leave her out of this.”

Dukat raises his brow ridges in surprise, with an air of condescension. “Miss Gyros inserted herself into this affair--”

“For my sake,” Naprem hisses. Without pausing to think about the consequences, she jabs her finger against the center of his chest. “She has nothing to do with this, and I will not allow her to come to harm - if you're here to punish someone, you punish me and me alone.”

A strange look crosses Dukat’s face - surprise and outrage, but something else that burns much more intensely, which Naprem can't identify. All at once she realizes she doesn’t know what he’s about to say, and it frightens her, what might be on the other side of that broad expanse, and so she pushes forward.

“Gyros B’hava’el has nothing to do with-- with any of this. You are going to forget her name, you are going to forget where she lives, whatever you do to me, you're going to do to _only_ me. She hasn't done anything wrong. She's--” Naprem chokes on the words, losing momentum as her tenderness overwhelms her. The bruise the moment leaves behind ignites, flaring brighter than before, and all at once she bursts with anger. “Gyros B’hava’el has been nothing but wonderful to me, for absolutely no good reason, and if you do anything at all to hurt her, I promise you, I'll…” She struggles to find something, and having no particularly nasty ideas settles for jabbing him in the chest again. Her wet _d’ja pagh_ drips on her collarbone. “You leave her out of this. Whatever you’re going to do, however you're going to punish me--”

“ _Professor!_ ” Dukat interrupts, as though he's heard quite enough of this. “I didn't come here to punish you!”

Naprem doesn't believe him for a second. “Then why _are_ you here?”

“To _apologize._ ”

That finally stops her dead. Her whole body goes still - somewhere inside her, a countdown timer freezes.

Apologize?

She stares at him.

_Apologize?_

He stands very still, letting her scrutinize him. He watches her, like he's waiting for her to move first. When she doesn't, he sighs again, and bows his head a little.

“Professor,” he says. “Accounting for everything you've just said - with full acknowledgment that I will do nothing to make you fear so dearly for your friend’s safety or furnishings - may I _please_ come inside.”

Naprem stares at him for a moment longer, struck dumb.

Then, after a moment, she takes a step back, and allows him across the threshold.

He steps in with no small amount of hesitation - one foot, then the other - but then, with some quickness, as though he thinks she might close the door on him if he takes too long. The room seems much smaller with him standing in it, his broad shoulders and height making him loom like a reaper, towering - unwelcome. Naprem regards him, temper flashing hot and cold beneath her skin.

He looks at her,then at the room itself, seeming to take it in. Naprem does too, seeing it almost through his eyes: to Cardassian sensibilities, she supposes the color, the number of pillows and plush luxury items scattered about the furniture and across the floor must look messy and uncoordinated, if not patently ostentatious. She flushes, embarrassed in spite of herself. B’hava’el’s apartment, more spacious and well-decorated than any place Naprem has been permitted to sleep in just over three decades, is a poor woman's attempt at fine living, and she can almost smell Dukat’s judgment of it. She flushes deeper, unbearably angry, and marches over to the pair of couches in the center of the room, taking a seat and glaring at him.

“Well?” she asks.

Dukat takes his cue and moves to sit down across from her, though he gives the seat a look of disdain before he does. Naprem remains standing, arms folded. Dukat arranges himself on the couch, adjusting his cape. Naprem raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“Sit down, Professor,” he says.

“No,” Naprem tells him. “You said you came to apologize?”

“I did.”

“Get to it then.”

Dukat squints at her in amazement. Nevertheless, he shakes his head, a maudlin grin on his mouth. He clucks his tongue just so.

“It has been brought to my attention that… I may owe you an apology for my reaction yesterday.”

Naprem stands there waiting, arms folded, staring at him. But he stares back at her, a placid expression on his face, evidently finished.

“...that’s it?”

Dukat blinks. “Yes.”

“Is your apology going to include _an apology_ of any kind?”

Dukat’s brow creases. “I’m saying, I apologize.”

“For what?” Naprem cocks her hip to the side.

“For how I treated you.”

“For screaming at me,” she says.

Dukat shrugs a little, clearly not too sorry about that part. “Yes.”

“For grabbing me?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

“For accusing me of conspiring to humiliate you?”

Dukat tips his head, not committing to that one.

“For refusing to take my advice, insulting me--”

“Professor,” Dukat says, evenly, “are you planning to generate an itemized list?”

“Are you planning to _actually apologize_ to me for anything you did?”

“I have!”

Naprem scoffs, throwing her hands up. She should've known. _Apologize_. What else was she expecting?

Dukat shakes his head like she’s being ridiculous and changes the subject: “Why are you here, Professor? I dismissed you, I didn't reassign you to new quarters.”

Naprem's hands knot into fists. “I have every right to be here.”

“I didn't say otherwise.” Dukat shifts on the couch. “Has something happened to make your own living arrangements undesirable?”

“You _fired_ me.”

Dukat shakes his head. “I fail to understand what one has to do with the other.”

“I don't have anywhere to be all day.”

Dukat wrinkles his nose, plainly confused. “You're still assigned to the Records department. Have you _not_ reported to your post there?”

“Why would I? You _fired me._ ”

“I dismissed you -- and not from your post in Records.”

“Oh, please, we all know what that means,” Naprem scoffs. It comes out much more frankly than she intends it to.

Dukat stares at her, uncomprehending. He tips his head, like he's struggling to make her out, though she knows that can't be true. Cardassians have excellent eyesight; Dukat has frequently demonstrated he's no exception.

“...Professor,” he says, slowly. “Are you operating under the assumption that I intend to punish you more severely than I already have?”

Naprem feels a tremor go through her and she tightens her fingers until her knuckles go white. She swallows thickly, determined not to let him see the fear that beats thicker than blood through her veins.

“Why wouldn't you?”

Dukat narrows his eyes, deep in confusion. “I assure you, Professor, I have no such intentions.”

“And what about B’hava’el?”

“What about her?”

“Are you going to punish _her?_ ”

“Professor!” He acts like she's being unreasonable.

“Because if you are, I won't stand for it - anything, any… petty vengeance you're planning, you'll enact it on _me_ and no one else.” Naprem’s voice shakes a little and she grinds her heel against the floor, stamping out her own cowardice. “No one else is going to suffer because of me, do you understand?”

Dukat puts up a hand, but he's giving her that look again - curious, almost.

“Professor,” he says. “I didn't come here to punish you or anyone else.”

Naprem’s heart gallops on without her before coming to an abrupt halt. She stands very still, staring at him.

“I don’t believe you,” she says.

“ _Professor_ ,” Dukat sighs. “When have I ever given you reason to believe that I would punish you disproportionate to the severity of an infraction?”

She gives him an incredulous look.

“Outside of this one time,” he adds.

“You’re Cardassian,” Naprem says.

“And?”

“That’s reason enough.”

Dukat’s face creases. “Are you really under the impression that Cardassian punishment is so unilaterally unfair that you or your friends could be killed over an infraction for which I’ve already disciplined you?”

Naprem narrows her eyes, wondering if he’s joking. “ _Yes_ ,” she says. “You’ve given me no reason to believe differently.”

Dukat stares at her for a long time -- but after a while, he looks away, clearly turning that scrutiny inward. He tips his head. Sighs. Nods a little.

“I suppose I haven’t,” he says, sounding uncomfortable with the idea.

She watches him shift back into the chair. His long-fingered hands are folded in his lap. His tail doesn’t move, resting on the floor in a clear gesture of solemnity. He drums his thumbs together, expression thoughtful.

“I’m sorry to have contributed to your opinion of us as excessively cruel.” He purses his lips. “That was far from my intention.”

Naprem can find no response to this. Dukat doesn’t seem to require one. He goes on: “I’m surprised that you would volunteer yourself to receive whatever punishment you imagined I had planned for Miss Gyros.”

Naprem’s frown deepens. “Why would that surprise you?”

It’s Dukat’s turn to shrug and shake his head. “It’s not particularly strategic. As familiar as you are with Cardassian cruelty, I’m sure you know that if I intended to punish Miss Gyros, I would.”

Naprem swallows thickly. “I had to try.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” Naprem’s eyes are burning. Her _d’ja pagh_ is dripping on the collar of her drab workers uniform. “Because she shouldn’t be punished for trying to help me.”

“You’d sacrifice yourself to protect her, then.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Dukat repeats. He huffs, shakes his head again.

“What?”

He’s quiet for a long time. She doesn’t understand why - his surprise is obvious, but she can’t imagine it’s cause. Why _wouldn’t_ she sacrifice for her closest friend? Why should it come as any surprise that she would?

“I’ve completely misunderstood you,” he says, after a long while. “Even knowing…” He tightens his hands in his lap, gazing at the floor as though having a sudden unpleasant revelation. “I’ve been blind to it. To you.”

Confusion buzzes in Naprem’s ears. “Sir?”

“Professor,” Dukat says. “What is it that goes through your mind when you bring a problem to me? What drove you to serve as my aide?”

“What drove me to--”

He looks up, pinning her with his eyes. “Humor me, Professor. You’ve never seemed particularly tempted by the power of your own position.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what is it?”

Naprem stares back at him. She swallows.

“...I feel a sense of duty,” she says, at last. “To my people. ...to you. At times. I had an opportunity to help those in need - I felt… a sense of duty.”

Dukat watches her for a long while. Then, he releases a deep breath. He jabs his tongue against his cheek, nodding slowly.

“A sense of duty,” he repeats, but so softly she’s sure he’s saying it to himself. He taps one of his forefingers against his knuckles.

After a short silence, he looks up at her again.

“I’ve done wrong by you, Professor,” he says. “I realize that. I’ve sorely misjudged the content of your character, to your detriment. I’ve behaved… in poor faith. Cultural misunderstandings aside, you’ve proven yourself on multiple occasions to be intelligent, honorable, and deserving of my trust in your good judgment - not to mention uniquely noble in your intentions. You’ve given me no reason to assume otherwise, or to question your intentions or your counsel.” He pauses, body rocking forward a little as he takes on the weight of his own words. “To that end, I now realize how inappropriate my behavior has been. I apologize.”

Naprem stares at him. She waits for him to say something more, to follow it up with something absolving him of all wrongdoing, but he says nothing. He sits very still and waits. And the longer the silence goes on between them, the more Naprem thinks he might actually mean it.

She chews her lip. She rocks her weight from one foot to the other. She exhales slowly.

And finally, she moves slowly to the couch across from him, and sits down.

They sit there in mutual silence for a moment - Naprem takes him in at eye level. There’s something strange about him today, something in his energy. She sits with his apology in her lap, and they stare at each other, each waiting for the other person to talk first.

Naprem gives in first. It’s her turn, after all.

“...thank you,” she says.

She sees Dukat start to relax, and puts her hand up.

“I accept your apology,” she says. “That doesn’t mean I've forgiven you.”

Dukat straightens his shoulders and frowns, sitting back in his chair. “I understand, Professor.”

“Do you?”

“ _Yes._ ” He smiles, brows pinching together like it’s _her_ he can’t understand. “Professor. I don’t expect you to forgive me all at once.” She can’t tell whether or not he means that. He says it in an oddly sarcastic tone of voice, but given how many times he’s claimed not to understand sarcasm, that may just be coincidence.

She hopes he means it. Whether he does or not, she’s nowhere close to forgiving him. A single, well-worded apology twenty-six hours after the fact - and without any history of humility, at that - can only go so far.

But it’s good. So far. It’s more than she was expecting, anyway.

“What now?” she asks.

Dukat takes a breath, clearly wondering the same thing. “I suppose that’s up to you. _I_ would personally like to move past this little… incident.”

“‘Little incident’?” she repeats, but without her usual ire. She doesn’t have the energy to pry his foot out of his mouth every time he forces it in at this point - it’s getting exhausting.

Dukat puts his hands up in surrender. “I only mean that for your sake as well as mine - I’d like to move forward. It’s clear this has caused you a not insignificant amount of distress. I’ve seen to that myself, I realize. I realized it at dinner. That’s why I didn’t pursue you.”

She’d wondered about that herself, in the middle of the night - why he’d allowed her and B’hava’el to escape, when he’d been intent to torment her all through dinner.

“Am I going to be punished further?” she asks.

“No,” Dukat says, earnestly. Then he adds, “And for your peace of mind, I assure you: neither will anyone else.”

“Then what else is there?”

Dukat brings his hands together in his lap again. He keeps his eyes on hers. “...I’d like you to come back to work with me.”

“No,” Naprem says, without a second’s hesitation.

He pushes a beleaguered growl through his teeth. “Professor…”

“Why would you want that?” she asks. “You dismissed me.”

“That was a misunderstanding,” Dukat says, more calmly than Naprem thinks is appropriate.

“Did you _not_ dismiss me?”

“I did…”

Naprem doesn’t let the ‘but…’ escape his mouth. “You don’t listen to me,” she argues. “What use do you have for an aide whose opinion you don’t respect?”

“I _do_ respect your opinion.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Naprem scoffs.

“I’ve been unfair to you,” Dukat says, with that same infuriatingly diplomatic air - she doesn’t like how patronizing he is now that he’s apparently made up his mind to be reasonable. “I realize that now.”

“What about the next time you’re unfair to me?” Naprem asks.

“I don’t intend for there to be a next time.”

“Ostensibly you didn’t intend for there to be a _this time_ , but there was, wasn’t there?” Naprem’s fighting the urge to shout, but her voice is verging on too loud nonetheless. “This time yesterday, you were ready to toss me out an airlock - not last night you went out of your way to make it clear you found me ungrateful, and my grievances unfounded.” She takes a breath; without her permission her voice threatens to shake. “You claim all of that’s changed, but I can’t see why or how. What reason could you possibly have to want me back?”

Dukat shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He rests one arm along the arm of the couch, eyes going hard for a moment before he withdraws into a distant expression. Naprem can see him mulling over his response in his head, constructing it piece by piece, like he needs to be delicate. Once, she thinks he’s about to speak, but he closes his mouth and inhales whatever he was about to say. He presses his fingers to his mouth and tugs them against his lips, thinking.

After a time, he drums his thumb against his cheek and meets her gaze again.

“I want you to like me,” he says. “I care about your opinion of me.”

Naprem stares at him.

“What?”

He cocks a brow ridge. “Is that so strange?”

“It’s unexpected,” she says, honestly. _Wants her to like him?_ Why? What could that possibly matter? He’s the Prefect - he doesn’t need her to like him. He has more power at his fingertips than she’s had her entire life.

Dukat watches her, tapping his thumb slowly against his cheek.

“Do you know how many people I interviewed for your position?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for her to answer. “Sixty-three. Sixty-three Bajorans, one right after the other, and not one of them had what I was looking for. Most of them were too frightened of me to say a word - what few weren’t would only tell me whatever they thought I wanted to hear.

“But _you_ ,” he says. “You were special, Tora - I knew that the moment we met. You didn’t care about what I wanted to hear. I gave you the opportunity to speak on your people’s behalf and you took it. You told me the truth. Boldly - knowledgeably. You were able to give me cogent, actionable advice that tangibly improved the quality of life on this station. I don’t think you realize how valuable that skill is to a man in my position.”

He pauses, choosing his next words.

“I didn’t take on this Prefecture to continue the legacy of my forebears,” he says. He looks away for a moment, scowling. “This Occupation effort has poorly executed and mismanaged since it’s inception - I came here to fix all that. Admittedly, I failed to realize that your people would present such a... _challenge_ to that endeavor. Nonetheless,” he says, scooping the air with his hand, as though to wave away the stench of his own arrogance, “I’ve seen no reason in my time here that, with diligence, the Occupation can’t be transitioned to a more traditional allegiance model.

“With that said,” he continues, his face taking on a softer light, “I hope it stands to reason that it matters to me what your opinion is of me. And of my efforts. If, for example, I leave you with the impression that I’m as cruel and unreasonable as every other Cardassian you’ve met…” He meets her eyes, and she feels the pull of his gaze again, goosebumps rising on the back of her neck. “...I don’t imagine I’ll have much success convincing you that I want what’s best for Bajor.”

Naprem watches him, and he watches her back - first the first time in a long time, she feels _seen_ , and she fights the shiver that wants to work its way down her spine. She stares at him, feeling a snap of discharge like static under her fingers.

“Alright,” she says, after a moment.

Dukat raises a brow ridge. “Alright?” he asks.

“Alright,” she says again. “I’ll…” She looks away. She clears her throat. “I’ll consider it.”

Dukat remains still for a while - then she hears him sigh, and sink back into his seat. “I suppose that’s all I can ask.”

She chances a look up at him. “If you are _asking._ ”

Dukat puts his hand up to stay her concerns. “I’m not ordering you. I’m asking you to come back and work for me. If you choose not to… you’ll remain in your position in the Records department, and we’ll terminate our professional relationship. This is your choice, Professor.”

 _As it should have been from the beginning,_ Naprem thinks. But instead of saying so, she simply nods.

Dukat nods back, slowly, then stands. She follows him up, mind spinning, body oddly buoyant.

“Take your time to consider what I’ve said,” he tells her. “Meet me tomorrow morning in my office. You can give me your answer then.”

He pauses then, eyes narrowing - she jumps as he reaches forward without permission and carefully plucks a loose thread from the shoulder of her uniform.

“The clothes you wore yesterday,” he says, tone thoughtful but leading.

“They weren’t mine,” she says, answering the question he hasn’t yet asked.

He nods, slowly, expression contemplative. Then, his tongue darts ever so slightly from his mouth and his eyes go hazy.

“...what is that _smell?_ ” he asks.

At first, Naprem thinks, with revulsion, that he’s referring to her clothes - do they _smell?_ She doesn’t think they do, they’re subjected regularly to the same rigorous daily cleaning as everyone else’s. But then, she sees his eyes mist over, and she feels the cold wet spot against her collar. She reaches for her pendant, and closes the dazzlingly purple stone shyly in her hand. She sees Dukat’s eyes narrow in confused comprehension.

“Your earring?”

“It’s made from a rare type of labradorite,” she explains, feeling self-conscious. “When wet, the chemical compounds in the stone induce mild olfactory hallucinations.” He looks at her to continue and she does, turning her face down and flushing. “Supposedly… it generates the smell you find most comforting.”

She looks up, then, into his face. He’s gazing back at her, face disarmingly soft - he’s much taller than her, much bigger, and yesterday he seemed to grow into it. He wielded his size as a weapon. But in this small, private moment, he seems to shed it entirely. His eyes are a million miles away, and still, they hold her in place, riveting and heavy.

“What does it smell like to you?” she asks, not sure if she wants to hear the answer.

She sees him go somewhere in his mind, and, unbidden, she tries to imagine it - his bedroom? A childhood friend? His mother? A sibling, perhaps, or a secret space all his own. A day ago, she might have wondered if it smelled like blood, but now she knows better. Perhaps it smells like his wife’s perfume, or his youngest child’s sticky hands, or the musty chamber of a medal ceremony.

“Home,” he says, softly.

Her heart pangs. She nods.

“I think so too,” she says, and for just a moment they stand there together, blanketed in the scent of something both very close, and very far away.

* * *

 

Skrain decides to take the call from Kell in his office rather than his quarters. When he arrives, the soldiers on night rotation look up, saluting him from their workstations with varying looks of surprise. He nods back, and walks up the steps to his office without a word. The room is cold and dark as he walks in - the lights come up, seeming to blink at him.

He takes a seat at his desk as the machinery of his office wakes up slowly around him. He’s filled with the sort of silent clarity that only finds him in the early morning, when the station is quiet. He slides the small package he brought from home into a drawer of his desk without looking at it.

In spite of how little he’d slept the night before last, he’d lain awake for hours last night, the heated slats of his bed warming his back and his neck, staring at the grooves in his ceiling without seeing them.

He supposes it shouldn’t surprise him that she’d refused to give him an answer in regards to his offer. Generous though he considers it, he realizes that he’s made it from a place of moral disadvantage - Tora holds the moral high ground, for the moment. He’s still not sure how he feels about that.

He’d known it, of course, in the meeting with Kubus. If he’s honest, who knew quite a bit earlier than that; the moment he’d been so cruel as to bring tears to Tora’s eyes, he’d known.

Skrain dislikes ever feeling obligated to regard himself as a villain. There are times, of course, as in every military man’s life, when he must employ a hard line of discipline, but he likes to think that he rarely, if ever, crosses it.

With Tora, he’s disappointed to admit that he had.

He doesn’t like thinking that, but it’s an impossible revelation to ignore. Skrain is - and has been, since childhood - an expert on his father’s virtues, but he’s always endeavored to avoid cultivating a similar study of the man’s sins, least of all his abundant and fervent cruelty. To evoke the man in a moment of anger gives him no end of grief. Lingering in the olfactory hallucinations of Tora’s pendant, for a moment, he’d felt almost as though he was standing in the threshold of the Dukat Legacy House, and his father’s shadow had set upon him all at once.

So he’d told her the truth. That was all he could have done, he reasons. Now, he must have the patience to see if it will come to fruition, and the grace to accept if it doesn’t.

He closes his eyes and bows his head. He's not a patient man.

The call from the Detapa Council cuts in, his terminal chiming to bring him out of his thoughts. He sits back in his chair, composes himself behind what he hopes is a dignified expression, and answers. The yonic symbol of the Union dissipates into a series of faces: Kell’s, and the eleven faces of the council members, all of them dour and resolute.

“ _Gul Dukat,_ ” Kell growls, as though Skrain’s punctuality has annoyed him.

“Legate Kell,” Skrain says. “Esteemed council members. Good morning.”

Jud Izir, the Council Head, dips his sharp chin in greeting. “ _Good morning, Gul Dukat,_ ” he says. “ _Thank you for taking time from your busy post to speak with us today._ ”

“Oh, not at all,” Skrain says, splaying his hands outward. “On the contrary, I’m happy to oblige.”

Kell scoffs, but Izir nods, looking gratified.

“ _As I’m sure you’ve been made aware,_ ” Izir says, “ _we’ve called this meeting to address a complaint relayed to this council by Legate Kell, regarding the behavior of… what we understand to be your personal servant._ ”

“Aide,” Skrain says, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“ _Of course_ ,” Izir nods, making no other indication that he understands the difference.

Another councilmember sits forward: Councilwoman Pinok Simin leans forward, her pinched expression exacerbated by the tight tug of her ornate braid at her temples. “ _Gul Dukat,_ ” she says. “ _This is not a disciplinary hearing. At this time we have no plans to implement any kind of punishment, as always we would encourage you and Legate Kell to work together to resolve any disagreements you may have regarding the minutiae of governance of your Prefecture._ ”

Skrain allows himself to glance at Kell - it’s clear from the look on the old man’s face that he wasn’t expecting this particular scolding. He grimaces sourly at the Councilwoman. Skrain smiles to himself. The smug old bastard always forgets that Skrain holds sway with the Council. He’s overplayed his hand, and now the whole room knows it.

“ _That said,_ ” Simin continues, “ _we did find Legate Kell’s account disturbing. It’s our hope that you can answer what questions we might have as to your choice to allow a Bajoran with #98719’s record to conduct herself with such impunity._ ”

“From what you’ve said, it’s clear that the circumstances have been miscommunicated,” Skrain says, a knob of confidence starting to swell within him. “But, as always, it’s my pleasure to answer any questions the Council may have regarding my conduct.”

“ _I’ve told the Council exactly what happened,_ ” Kell snaps, and Skrain feels the smile fall off his face. “ _Based on Lumer’s firsthand account, you’ve granted this Bajoran high level security clearance, and failed to discipline her for numerous infractions. It’s been intimated to me from a number of sources that you give her free reign of the station. That you allow her to speak disrespectfully to Cardassian officers, to interrupt secure operations._ ”

Skrain narrows his eyes, a fresh flush of hatred coloring the scales of his neck. He should’ve known - Darhe’el always has had Kell’s ear. No doubt he’s been feeding him salacious gossip about Tora ever since the coup attempt. Kell must have been waiting all this time for an opportunity to spring a trap on them both - Tora for having the nerve to outsmart his golden boy, and Dukat for having the nerve to let her.

“I can assure you,” he says, “those reports have been greatly exaggerated. Tora Naprem has only been granted what clearance her position as my aide demands - it is the nature of her position that she be allowed to travel freely, and to speak freely to my men. As to reports of any insubordination - when I’ve taken issue with her conduct, I’ve corrected her. Largely, I’ve seen no need.”

Another Councilwoman sits forward: Korlen Rakti, whose long, thick jowls pull her mouth into an eternal fat-lipped frown. “ _Granting her freedom of movement and speech is perhaps understandable,_ ” she says, “ _given her position. But I would argue the entire exercise is unnecessary. There are plenty of perfectly qualified Cardassians who could perform such a job. I can only assume you take some sort of enjoyment in the disruptive quality this alien has had among your ranks. Bajorans are naturally volatile and possessed of limited intellect. If you had taken her on as a personal servant, I could understand..._ ”

Skrain’s hatred surges a little hotter. Rakti has always preferred Kell to him - she’s always been more than willing to question his motives. Self-acclaimed ‘expert’ that she is, she’s never even visited Bajor, yet remains convinced that she knows better than he does how it ought to be governed.

But before he can interrupt, Councilman Vokan Pa’Dar clears his throat, claiming the floor. “ _Councilwoman Rakti_ ,” he says, “ _surely you can’t mean to imply that Gul Dukat has made this decision out of some… perverse love of chaos?_ ”

Rakti’s jowly face tightens in disdain. “ _Of course not,_ ” she says, though they both know that of course that’s _precisely_ what she meant to imply. “ _Though I can’t possibly imagine what other reason he might have…_ ”

“ _Order,_ ” Council Head Izir says, gruffly.

“If I may,” Skrain says, voice sharp. The Council goes quiet, ceding him the floor. Skrain regards them for a moment: eleven sets of peering, guileless eyes, not one of them more qualified than he is to run this station, and not one of them aware of the fact.

“When I took this commission,” he says, “it was with the understanding that both this Council and Central Command hoped I would spearhead a complete overhaul of the Bajoran Occupation. Was I mistaken?”

“ _No,_ ” Izir says. “ _I believe I speak for the Council when I say we would like to see a complete transformation of the Bajoran effort - that is to say, a conversion into a much more productive model of governance._ ”

Skrain nods, still bristling. “As would I. And so I hope you understand that I’m… disappointed with this particular reaction to my inclusion of a Bajoran on my personal staff.”

Councilwoman Simin peers at him. “ _It sounds as though you object to the very premise of this meeting._ ”

Skrain catches Kell watching him, and grits his teeth.

“I could easily object to your line of inquiry,” he begins, headfeathers stiff against the back of his neck. “I think the very premise of this meeting is _perverse_. I can't think of a single time when anyone on this Council has voiced any thoughts or objections to any officer’s personnel in this manner. I don't believe it's the business of this Council, or my presiding Legate to pass judgement on the personal qualifications of members of my staff.

“But,” he continues, before anyone can interject, “it would be disingenuous of me to pretend that I don't believe Tora Naprem to be worthy of the Council’s consideration. I do. In fact, I believe we all should consider her as a representative of the best the Bajoran people have to offer.”

“ _You mean you believe her to be uniquely qualified for this position?_ ” Simin asks, looking puzzled.

Councilwoman Rakti huffs. “ _I find that impossible to believe._ ”

“The integrity of your imagination notwithstanding,” Skrain sneers, “I do.” He spreads his hands again, speaking in a more egalitarian tone to the council members who seem to already be verging on agreement with him. “This is, unfortunately, a position no Cardassian could fill - I require her expertise and guidance in order to maintain a sense of how my actions and policies may be received by her people.”

“ _Gul Dukat,_ ” Izir says, clearly trying to maintain friendliness through a thick curtain of doubt. “ _Fascinating as that approach may be, the Bajoran Prefecture is notoriously unstable, due in no small part to the fanaticism of the locals._ ”

“ _We’ve found no benefit to partnering with them in the past,_ ” Kell adds. He has his arms folded, and a composed expression - a sure sign that he thinks he has the upper hand.

Izir nods. “ _The Bajorans must be rendered useful if we’re to make any progress in the region. Historically, inviting them to participate in the creation of policy has only led to… a confusion regarding Cardassian dominion over the territory. I don’t need to tell you what sort of consequences that type of confusion can have for our men in the field._ ”

“ _The Bajorans need decisive leadership,_ ” Councilwoman Rakti agrees. “ _Giving any one of them special privileges risks_ **_confusing_ ** _the others - giving them a false understanding of their place._ ”

“Councilors,” Skrain barks, interrupting again. He smiles when they look at him, trying to cover his own mounting irritation. “Surely my record speaks for itself…”

Kell bares his teeth. “ _Your record speaks to a persistent disrespect for protocol._ ”

Skrain fights the urge to snarl back at him. “A disregard for convention, perhaps.”

Kell clucks his tongue. “ _There’s no difference._ ”

“I think we all know that there is.” Skrain can’t keep the imperiousness out of his voice. “I have _always_ acted in service to the Union - throughout my career I have readily accepted posts others have scoffed at. The mining facility at Kora II. Orit Nor. Letau. Time and again I have showcased my ability to rehabilitate efforts and installations long considered past the point of no return, and every time, I have maintained a deep loyalty to Cardassian ideals. In order to change the unchangeable, I must be willing to consider what has never before been considered.”

He sees Councilman Pa’Dar raise a brow ridge, tipping his head thoughtfully.

Kell shakes his head, disgusted. “ _That’s a flowery way of saying you have no respect for your predecessors._ ”

“My predecessors,” Skrain growls, “are to credit for the situation as it stands.”

He turns his attention to the council members, forcing himself to stay calm. “I cannot see a way to improve upon their limited success without changing not just our expectations of the Bajorans but our methodology. Tora Naprem is a credit to her people. Legate Kell sees an impudent woman - I see in her a better future. You installed me as Prefect in order to change the course of this Occupation, and I intend to. Tora has shown me the rich potential of the Bajoran people. I believe that with a firm but gentle guiding hand, this planet can be cultivated into a valuable Union asset. And I intend to prove it.”

“ _And how, precisely, do you intend to do that?_ ” Izir asks, leaning closer to his screen.

Skrain presses his hands together. “I have given you every reason to believe that I am the man for this job - I must insist that you allow me to do it, and that you place your trust not just in me, but in those who I consider qualified to join my staff.”

“ _You’re asking us to place our faith in a Bajoran!_ ” Councilwoman Rakti snaps.

Councilwoman Simin leans forward, that same unscrupulous look on her face. “ _Gul Dukat_ ,” she says, “ _I admit I’m very curious to know what sort of individual could inspire such a reaction in you._ ”

Councilman Pa’Dar nods in agreement. “ _Yes,_ ” he says. “ _I’d also like to hear this, if you don’t mind. We’ve heard conflicting accounts of the woman’s deeds, but what about her character? What makes you so sure that she’s the person for this job?_ ”

Skrain folds his hands and takes a breath. He draws his tongue along his teeth.

What makes him sure? He’s not, of course - well. That’s not true. He’s certain she’s the right person for the job, now more than ever. But he’d offered it to her, and she’s yet to accept. Anything he says now could be entirely pointless.

But he didn’t come here to fail to expound on Tora’s virtues, and so he readies them on his tongue.

He’s about to speak when the door slides open. He looks up, startled - and there, in the early morning quiet, is Tora Naprem.

For a split second he wonders if he’s hallucinating. He glances surreptitiously at the time, doing his best not to look like he’s been distracted, less he concede the floor to someone else. It’s well before clock-in for the morning shift. But then, he thinks, he hadn’t specified a time. No doubt she’d spent another night in the care of the obliging Miss Gyros. When he looks up at her again, she looks real enough - he sees her eyes flit to his terminal, mouth falling open, her brows rising in a silent question. He lifts his chin, gesturing for her to stay. She closes her mouth, nodding a little, and without him asking, she pads a little nearer.

“ _Gul Dukat?_ ” Pa’Dar asks, and he jerks his eyes away from her, heat fluttering in his chest.

“I apologize, Councilor,” he says. “I was… considering my answer to your question.”

“ _The Bajoran’s character_ ,” Rakti huffs. “ _Out with it._ ”

In the corner of his vision, Skrain sees Tora go rigid - he feels the nervous flexing of her bioelectric signal, hot against his hunter’s eye. Her hands knot in her lap.

Inadvertently, Skrain feels himself swell with pride and protectiveness. He looks up, and through the viewscreen he locks eyes with Tora, speaking to her through the council.

“In my experience, character cannot be pared down to a simple set of words. To her credit, I have found Tora Naprem to be exceedingly moral, dutiful, and honest. Canny and possessed of great intelligence. She has a keen political mind; a fierce loyalty to those whom are lucky enough to have her confidence.”

He sees her face flush softly from across the room, going faintly pink. He goes on: “I initially selected her not just for her savvy, but for her candor. What lesser men might perceive as disrespect, I recognize to be great bravery - it’s not every Bajoran who can find the courage to speak truthfully to a man in my position. I find it… refreshing.

“This of course is to say nothing for her enduring talent for conversation and debate. In all my life, I would struggle to identify her equal. I am, by my own measure, not a man easily swayed by anything less than a compelling, well-constructed argument. She presents nothing but. It is only ever to my own detriment that I ignore her guidance.

“On my behalf, she has worked tirelessly to redress the broken systems not just of this station but of the Cardassian presence on this planet. You can credit her at least partially with every success I’ve enjoyed since I arrived here.”

“ _In a word,_ ” Rakti says impatiently, clearly tired of the sound of his voice. “ _In a single word!_ ”

“If you’d like,” he says, and he says it to her, standing there, watching him. “In a word: I have found Tora Naprem to be absolutely irreplaceable.”

There’s a feverish muttering from the table of council members, an incredulous ‘ _hrumph_ ’ from Kell. But Skrain isn’t looking at them - he’s looking across the room at Tora, whose face has turned a comically bright shade of red.

“ _That is a… very strong endorsement,_ ” Councilman Izir says.

“ _But reassuring_ ,” says Councilwoman Simin, “ _if it proves true._ ”

Councilman Pa’Dar also looks moved. “ _Yes_ ,” he says. “ _I feel… comfortable rendering judgment at this time._ ”

Izir nods. “ _Yes_ ,” he says. “ _I agree - I feel that… at this time, the Detapa Council is well served in voicing our support--_ ”

Councilwoman Rakti squawks like a hen. “ _You can’t be serious!_ ”

“ _At this time_ ,” Izir insists, “ _I see no reason to object. We can, of course, revisit the subject in time._ ”

Skrain tips his head in acknowledgement - he expected no less, but he can’t help but be annoyed that they all remain so steadfastly inoculated against good sense. He supposes he ought to be grateful that they’ve elected not to meddle in his affairs… this time.

Still, he chances a look at Kell: he’s rigid, practically vibrating with contempt.

“ _Legate Kell,_ ” Izir says. “ _We thank you, as always for your service - we hope that you feel this time was well spent. If there’s anything else you’d like to discuss..._ ”

Kell’s upper lip hitches, and he bares his teeth to the congregation, ridges fanning out in an impertinent display.

“ _No_ ,” he says, glowering at Skrain. “ _I’ve heard quite enough._ ”

Skrain smiles coldly. _Better luck next time, old man._

“ _Well,_ ” Izri says, clearly blind to their mutual loathing. “ _Then I am content to consider the matter addressed, and this meeting closed. Long live Cardassia._ ”

“Long live Cardassia,” Skrain replies, a looseness rolling through his bones in the chorus that joins him. The channel is closed, and the viewscreen vanishes.

After a moment, he looks up. His eyes meet Tora’s, and he studies her. The flush is slowly leaving her cheeks, but it still lingers - he sees it bloom again when their eyes meet, and not for the first time, he considers her as one considers a particularly outlandish and extraordinary work of art.

“Good morning, Professor,” he says, daring to hope.

She blinks, fumbling a little with her words.

“Good morning,” she says. “I’m sorry I-- I didn’t mean to interrupt. If I’m too early, I--”

Skrain waves her off. “Please,” he says. “Sit.”

She bites her lip, and comes forward tentatively, as though she still expects him to send her away. She takes her seat across from him, tucking her hands in her lap, looking exceedingly shy.

“I didn’t expect you to be in a meeting,” she says. “It’s so early.”

Skrain shrugs. “The time difference with Cardassia Prime makes early morning meetings the most practical.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“Don’t be,” he says. He’s trying to read her mood - to deduce what it is she came here to say. Yes? No? He wishes they could dispense with pleasantries altogether, but he’s not Cardassian for nothing.

He sees her twist her hands in the dingy cloth of her tunic, expression pensive and nervous.

“...was that about me?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, steadily. He watches her for a reaction.

She doesn’t disappoint. She winces, sinking her teeth into her lower lip again, hands making nervous rounds in her lap.

“You have meetings about me?”

“Not often,” he says.

“Why?”

He sighs, shrugs a little looser. Still no sense of her answer. “I was asked by my superior officer to explain to the representatives of the civilian government my choice to retain you as a member of my staff.”

“When?”

“The day before yesterday.”

She blinks at him.

“But you fired me the day before yesterday.”

He maintains his gaze, keeping his tone even.

“Yes I did,” he says.

She stares at him.

“Did you tell him you fired me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t tell me who to retain on my staff,” Skrain says. He takes a moment, then takes a chance. “...and I’d already made up my mind to offer you the job again.”

Her brow wrinkles with incredulousness.

“Why?” she asks.

He watches her - he’s trying desperately to get a sense of how this conversation is going. Well? Poorly? Tora is an amalgam. Her alien face is a beautiful, incomprehensible puzzle. What he would give for headfeathers, or ridges, or a tail - just for the opportunity to read her a little better. Even her body language is foreign to him.

“Because,” he says, still testing, still trying to put together the best answer. “I knew I needed you. I just hadn’t figured out how to tell you yet.”

There’s a brief silence - but Tora doesn’t look away from him. She holds him in her soft, mysterious gaze, face composed in an expression he can’t read, but which he desperately wants to.

“Did you mean it?” she asks, softly. “What you said to the Council.”

Skrain doesn’t move, for fear of frightening her off.

“I did.”

Tora still doesn’t look away from him. Her cheeks are still beautifully pink beneath her brown skin. At long last, she speaks again.

“I thought a lot about what you said. Last night.” She swallows, but doesn’t break eye contact. “About me coming back. About you… wanting me to like you.”

She goes quiet, but he doesn’t speak - he waits for her to go on.

“Do you?” she asks, finally. “Want me to like you.”

Skrain finds his throat oddly thick as he swallows.

“Yes,” he says.

Tora nods, as though she expected as much.

“I believe you,” she says needlessly, but Skrain feels some part of him pang with gratitude nonetheless. “That’s what I was thinking about.”

She looks down, but before he can languish at the loss of her gaze, it’s back, more intense than ever. She keeps her voice soft, but instead of asking her to speak up, Skrain simply strains to hear, hanging on her every word.

“Gul Dukat,” she says. “I don’t think I can work for you unless I like you. What you said… about wanting the Occupation to change for the betterment of my people... That’s a cause I’ll happily align myself with. But if you want me to work for you - I have to like you. And the people I like, they’ve earned it.”

Skrain almost mishears her - his heart stops, then starts again, spinning and dizzy.

“How?” he asks, almost whispering it.

“They treat me well,” Tora says. “We’re kind to each other. We treat each other as equals. We learn from one another, we respect one another. We take heart in our differences as well as our commonalities. We stick up for one another.”

 _Equals?_ Kell would eat his boot if he could hear this - that or ram it up Skrain’s rear end. A Bajoran, preaching to him about being treated with kindness and respect. And yet, Skrain finds him giving her his rapt attention, unable to look away, or even find any compelling reason to disagree.

“If you want to be a friend to me,” she says, “and you’ll work towards it - I’ll work for you.”

 _‘That’s it?’_ his brain supplies. That’s all she wants? That’s simple enough, he thinks. He can do that, surely.

This, he thinks, is the moment he’s been waiting for.

Without a word, he nods, and reaches under his desk.

He’d had a thought, yesterday - when Kai Opaka had explained the whole mess to him in alarming clarity. He’d had it again when he’d picked a fraying thread from the shoulder of Tora’s dilapidated uniform and seen her flush with shame. He’d thought about it all night, in fact: what he’d offer her if indeed she did come back to him, what might be appropriate in her mind - in the mind of a creature well-versed in giving and accepting gifts. By this morning, the answer had been obvious. He’d replicated it at home, and wrapped it in thin paper bound with twine - and now, he takes it from the drawer he’d slid it into before the meeting, and walks carefully around the desk to face her.

“I accept,” he says. “And… to show my gratitude, I’ve… prepared something. If you don’t object - a gift.”

She looks up at him, and he offers it, clearing his throat a little.

“If this is inappropriate,” he says, out of the corner of his mouth, “I hope you’ll tell me presently.”

“It isn’t,” she says, still watching him.

He gives her a look. “...then please relieve me of the suspense.”

Tora lifts her hands slowly, and takes the package from him, not breaking eye contact. Only once she has the package in her lap does she chance a look down at it.

Skrain clears his throat again, leaning back against his desk. “Kai Opaka explained to me that… it’s considered generous in Bajoran culture to present a gift to someone to whom you hope to extend good tidings.”

“It is,” Tora says. She runs her hands slowly - almost reverently - over the paper. Skrain peers at her, fighting the urge to tap his foot. He can’t imagine what’s stopping her. Perhaps Bajorans aren’t the practice of wrapping their gifts? But before he can explain to her how it’s done, she’s hooked her thumb under the folds of the paper and begun the careful process of undoing it, pulling the twine loose.

He hears her breath catch in her throat and he can’t disguise his grin.

She stands, and he moves away to let her spread it over the table piece by piece: a long violet dress the color of her pendant, modeled in the _ganko dai_ style, high collar, long sleeves, a slit running up to the waist to allow for movement. A long, comfortable tunic the same golden color as the scarf she wore to dinner. And beneath them, a crisp new pair of pants, and a soft-soled pair of boots. She stares at them with her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“I realize they’re a bit plain,” he says, delighted by her transparent awe but determined not to be too big-headed about it. “I didn’t have time to meet with a tailor - you’ll have to tell me if they’re to your measurements.” He tips his head, leaning in to survey her. “Am I to take it you like them?”

“Gul Dukat…” she murmurs, breathlessly. “This… I…” She can’t seem to put a sentence together. She clutches the dress to her chest, gaping at him, cheeks blossoming red. “ _Gul Dukat_ ,” she says again.

He pauses - he’s reminded of how Naprem used Miss Gyros’ personal name yesterday. That’s typical between friends, isn’t it? Among Bajorans - and among Cardassians, too.

“Please,” he says, before he has time to rethink it. “Professor. Call me Skrain.”

Tora gazes at him, misty-eyed and flushed, clutching his gift to her heart. Finally, she nods a little.

“Skrain,” she says, softly. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to all my readers, and everyone who helped me with this fic. To Al, Lena, D'rorah, Kellan, Mo, Elcie, Amy: I could not have gotten this chapter done without you. To all my readers: thank you so much for reading! I'm looking forward to seeing Dukat and Naprem's friendship evolve... 
> 
> And an extra special thanks to Elcie for this little gem. I can think of no image that better sums up this chapter: https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/414646029607239690/443123910339330049/unknown.png
> 
> Until next time, LLAP my friends!

**Author's Note:**

> Cheli: "cheh-lee." n. used as a term of endearment or affectionate form of address, especially with children. Similar to the English "baby."
> 
> Un'naz'gul: "oohn-nahz-guhl." phrase meaning 'by the unknowable will of the Prophets,' or 'as the Prophets will it.' An old/archaic phrase traditionally used to express a hope that the Prophets will bless an action partaken by either the speaker or the listener.


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